The  TORCHLIGHT  Series 
of  Napoleonic  Romances 


I REVOLUTION 

II LOVE 

HI AMBITION 

IV SUCCESS 

V VICTORY 

VI TRIUMPH 

VII GLORY 

VHI ARROGANCE 

IX STORM 

X RETREAT 

XI DEFEAT 

XII..       ..THE   END 


E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


The  TORCHLIGHT  Series 
of  Napoleonic  Romances 

LOVE 


BY 


LEONIE  AMINOFF 


NEW   YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


PRESERVATION 
COPY  ADDED 
ORIGINAL  TO  BE 
RETAINED 


HAY  2  01994 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  £.  P.  Button  &  Company 

All  Rights  Reserved 


PRINTED  IK  THE  UNITED 
STATES  OF  AMERICA. 


n\  b 


PROLOGUE 

LIKE  the  chorus  employed  by  Mr.  Shakespeare  to 
explain  his  play,  maybe  it  would  further  our  story  to 
return  to  the  back  number?  Number  one — the  first  vol- 
ume of  these  Napoleonic  romances — deals  with  the  Revo- 
lution. There's  Robespierre  and  Tallien  in  it;  Mme. 
Tallien  as  a  young  girl;  also  as  a  girl  bride — she  was 
barely  sixteen  when  her  first  child  was  born,  the  son  of 
her  first  husband  the  Marquis  Devin  de  Fontenay,  whom 
she  divorced  during  the  Terror,  partly  because  she  was 
tired  of  him,  partly  to  shine  the  lovelier  in  the  eyes  of 
M.  Tallien,  the  zealous  patriot  of  '93,  and  Governor  of 
Bordeaux.  He  set  up  a  guillotine  in  that  city  and  worked 
it  for  all  he  was  worth.  The  divorced  wife  of  red-headed, 
uninteresting  Marquis  de  Fontenay  was  his  mistress  during 
that  bloody  reign,  and  they  say  she  deserved  her  title  of 
"Our  Lady  of  Mercy" — saving  a  good  many  aristocrats 
from  death  by  forging  passports  and  getting  them  pas- 
sages on  outward-bound  vessels.  It  is  satisfactory  to  chalk 
up  any  good  thing  about  the  lady,  as,  truth  to  tell,  her  sins 
very  much  outweighed  her  virtues.  In  this  present  volume 
married  to  Tallien,  she  is  the  moving  spirit  of  the  Direc- 
tory, the  government  which  immediately  followed  the 
Revolution,  in  its  turn  overthrown,  1799,  by  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  who,  as  you  know,  assumed  office  (and  prac- 
tically all  the  power)  as  First  Consul  "for  life." 
Josephine,  when  informed  of  this  new  proof  of  the  nation's 
trust  in  her  general — whom  she'd  married  to  do  her 
children  a  good  turn — did  not  appreciate  it  at  all.  "Oh," 
she  said,  "it  sounds  very  dull.  I  love  change."  As  it 
happened  she  had  quite  sufficient. 

History  is  often  stranger  than  fiction.     In  this  first 
volume  of  ours — which  I  advise  you  to  read — far  better 


493473 


vi  LOVE 

than  little  tit-bits  of  information,  which  can't  be  either 
instructive  or  entertaining — we  have  actually  Tallien's 
mistress,  a  duchess  who  slips  off  into  private  life,  and 
Bonaparte's  future  empress  all  boxed  up  in  the  same  cell 
at  Les  Carmes,  waiting  every  evening  to  hear  their  names 
read  on  the  list  of  the  condemned.  We  like  that  piece, 
though  we  have  written  it,  we  say  it  is  true  to  life,  with 
just  the  necessary  touch  of  romance  to  make  it  thrilling. 
Fancy  now,  Josephine,  Terezia  and  that  dear  little  Ninon 
— who  vanishes  out  of  the  story  like  a  pretty  little  senti- 
ment— were  actually  living,  breathing  historical  women 
at  the  time  when  Robespierre  went  about  in  sky-blue 
clothes,  and  Napoleon  in  disgrace,  sucking  an  orange,  in 
the  narrow  undrained  streets  of  old  Paris.  ...  It  is  the 
human  touch,  after  all,  which  makes  us  all  akin.  The  book 
as  far  as  it  is  written  has  that  merit.  Not  a  word  in  it 
introduced  for  the  sake  of  padding — each  line  is  a  link  in 
the  chain  of  one  man's  life.  Through  the  Revolution  and 
the  Terror  he  necessarily  played  a  poor,  humble  part.  To 
be  unknown  is  a  severe  penalty  on  ambition.  No  doubt 
Napoleon,  having  finished  his  orange,  and  finding  it  did 
not  satisfy  his  appetite,  thought  very  badly  of  the  situa- 
tion and  turned  his  brain  inside  out  to  find  a  possible 
loophole  of  escape.  Odd  enough  to  say,  Toulon  had  come 
out  flat.  He'd  swept  the  English  out  to  sea,  but  the  Revo- 
lutionists, after  paying  him  the  flimsiest  compliment  for 
his  military  services,  not  only  left  him  in  a  corner,  but  at 
the  first  opportunity  deprived  him  of  his  commission. 

In  this  present  volume  our  hero  emerges  from  his 
obscurity,  succeeds  even  in  getting  married  and  learning 
the  foxtrot  of  the  day.  We  see  him  at  M.  Barras'  famous 
parties,  where  Mme.  Tallien  launched  the  new  fashions 
and  behaved  disgracefully.  For  one  thing  she  very  soon 
ousted  "darling  Josephine,"  as  she  called  the  widow  Beau- 
harnais,  from  the  vacillating  affections  of  Barras,  who, 
as  the  head  of  the  Directory,  was  the  most  important  man 
in  Paris,  when  sugar  cost  eight  hundred  francs  a  pound. 
Mme.  Tallien  always  looked  to  the  main  chance.  As 


PROLOGUE  vii 

mistress  of  Paul  Barras  and  the  Luxembourg  she  reigned 
for  more  than  a  year  and  a  day. 

On  coming  out  of  prison  everyone  was  more  or  less  poor. 
No  doubt  it  was  wise  of  Josephine  to  let  M.  Barras  help 
her  in  her  difficulties.  That  she  did  so — and  paid  the  price 
— is  a  fact  we  have  no  particular  reason  to  hide.  No 
doubt  Napoleon  was  aware  of  her  "kindness"  in  that  quar- 
ter, though  of  course  he  did  not  mention  it.  Besides,  any 
little  scandal  between  them  was  so  very  soon  squashed  by 
Terezia's  sandalled  feet.  She  introduced  sandals,  bare 
feet,  even  great-toe  rings/  in  ballrooms,  and  the  very 
scantiest  frocks  imaginable.  A  detestable  young  woman. 
If  you  are  not  up  in  history  we  are  glad  to  tell  you  her 
vogue  vanished  with  the  Directory.  In  other  words,  after 
the  third  volume  of  this  work  you'll  hardly  meet  her. 
Napoleon  could  not  stand  her  at  any  price,  though  on 
one  occasion  he  made  love  to  her.  His  word  is  law.  Nat- 
urally Mme.  Tallien  goes.  And  not  a  living  soul  need 
regret  her.  That  precious  Tallien  of  hers — whom,  of 
course,  she  divorced — also  retires  into  the  background. 
New  lamps  for  old  lamps?  That's  the  idea.  Once  married, 
Bonaparte  buckles  on  his  sword  and  goes  to  the  wars  and 
has  no  end  of  a  proud  time.  He  was  never  happy ;  but 
domineering  and  wise.  He  creates  his  own  atmosphere. 
He  brings  his  relations  to  Paris,  and  an  entirely  new  set 
of  people.  In  the  interests  of  the  story  let  us  say  the 
principals  remain,  including  the  doctor,  the  landlord,  the 
pawnbroker,  the  musician  and  the  poet  at  The  Cow.  Poor 
ojd  blistered  cow.  You  remember  the  signpost? — centuries 
old — of  a  creature  painted  blue — washed  pale  by  many  a 
dew — with  gold  spots  on  her  body,  poached-egg  eyes  and 
a  tail  literally  made  of  wrought  iron  twisting  cunningly 
out  of  the  picture,  a  fair  way  down,  tipped  conveniently 
to  support  mine  host's  foggy  street  lantern.  We'll  tell 
you  a  secret  to  start  off  with.  Souci  is  our  favorite.  Sec- 
ond to  him  comes  Joseph,  the  disguised  turnkey  of  Les 
Carmes,  a  brave  gentleman  if  ever  there  was  one,  and  the 
greatest  optimist  of  his  day. 


BOOK  I 


TORCHLIGHT 


CHAPTER  I 

MADAME  JOSEPHINE  DE  BEAUHABNAIS  took  her  widow- 
hood, as  M.  Joseph  had  foreseen,  quite  angel- 
ically. For  the  first  two  or  three  months  after  her 
release  from  prison,  she  wore  becoming  mourning  for  the 
late  vicomte — one  of  that  splendid  band  of  martyrs — and 
whenever  she  spoke  of  him — which  was  far  more  frequently 
than  when  he  had  been  alive — she  invariably  referred  to 
him  as  "poor  dear  Alexandre."  How  true  it  is  that  death 
— particularly  under  tragic  circumstances — improves  our 
worldly  position.  Her  husband's  memory  was  full  of 
tender  light  to  Josephine.  Aunt  Fanny,  the  kindest  of 
ladies,  understood  her  niece's  attitude  and  sympathized 
fully  with  her  regenerated  feelings  towards  the  defunct 
soldier  and  gentleman,  her  nephew  by  marriage. 

When  Josephine  came  out  of  prison,  Madame  Fanny 
de  Beauharnais  received  her  as  a  mother,  in  poor  circum- 
stances. Everyone  was  poor  at  that  time.  Everyone  had 
to  pinch  and  screw  and  hope  for  better  times,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  lucky  individuals,  including  M.  Paul 
Barras  and  mealy-mouthed,  triumphant  M.  Tallien.  As 
we  have  said,  Man-Tallien  emerged  from  the  Terror  as 
a  frightened  duckling  from  a  slimy  pond  on  to  a  patch 
of  golden  sunlit  earth,  where — like  a  duckling — he  very 
quickly  recovered,  shook  the  slime  off  his  body  and  grew, 
as  it  were,  a  complete  new  set  of  feathers  (principles). 

One  of  Josephine's  first  pious  acts  was  to  buy  her  be- 
reaved children  suitable  mementoes  of  their  father,  at  the 

3 


LOVE 


expense  of  M.  B arras.  Both  Eugene  and  Hortense  had 
been  genuinely  attached  to  their  gay,  good-looking  parent. 
However,  as  Josephine  said,  time  would  heal  the  cruel 
wound  inflicted  on  their  young  hearts.  Hortense  got  a 
dignified  mourning-brooch,  inset  with  a  miniature  portrait 
of  the  vicomte.  Eugene  was  presented  with  a  new  scarf- 
pin  and  his  father's  old  sword,  which  last  treasure  he 
valued  extremely.  "Poor  dear  children!"  their  mother 
would  exclaim,  "how  uncertain  is  their  future.  What  can 
I  give  them?" 

Madame  Josephine,  after  accepting  Aunt  Fanny's  hos- 
pitality for  a  little  while — on  the  recommendation  of  M. 
Barras — removed  into  a  modest  apartment,  not  far  off 
from  the  Luxembourg.  With  her  small  means  the  widow 
furnished  it  delightfully.  At  the  end  of  the  Terror  furni- 
ture was  to  be  had  quite  cheaply  in  Paris.  All  the  big 
houses  were  empty,  a  great  many  demolished,  others  again 
robbed  of  all  their  contents,  from  garret  to  cellar.  The 
streets  were  full  of  new  people.  If  you  went  to  the  play, 
probably  you  would  not  know  a  single  person  in  the 
theatre.  There  were  few  carriages  in  the  streets.  For 
obvious  reasons  all  the  aristocrats  in  town  lived  very 
quietly.  Their  reticence  quite  pained  M.  Tallien.  His 
heart  yearned  over  the  "unfortunates,"  or  rather  over  a 
class  he — and  he  alone — had  been  able  to  snatch  from 
perdition. 

The  last  year  of  Terror  was  going  out  meekly  as  a  lamb. 
True — spiritual  regeneration  aside — there  was  much  to  be 
done  from  a  practical  point  of  view.  The  granaries  were 
empty.  The  exchequers  full  of  worthless  paper  money. 
Prices  were  ruinous.  The  dirt  and  confusion  in  France, 
thanks  to  Robespierre's  horrid  excesses,  were  truly  awful. 
Each  member  of  the  new  government  was  given  any  amount 
of  new  brooms.  "Sweep  away,"  said  Tallien,  enthusias- 
tically. "Sweep  away!"  gesticulating  as  a  windmill — all 
eagerness  to  set  everyone  a  good  example.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  it  required  a  stronger  brain  than  M.  Paul  Barras 
possessed  to  know  if  he  was  standing  on  his  head  or  his 


LOVE  5 

heels  at  this  ticklish  transition  period  of  French  history. 
He  had  accepted  office  as  the  head  of  the  Convention. 
Tallien  was  his  right-hand  man.  Talleyrand  was  in  Amer- 
ica, or  rather,  on  his  way  back  to  France.  If  his  head 
was  safe  Talleyrand  could  always  be  relied  upon  to  look 
after  his  own  interests  and  (if  they  coincided)  the  interests 
of  other  people.  Barras  was  looking  forward  to  the 
ex-Bishop's  assistance  in  the  delicate  task  of  pleasing  all 
parties,  or,  if  that  was  impossible,  to  satisfy  the  majority. 
Fouche  was  another  public  man  to  the  fore.  All  moder- 
ates. All  innocent  of  any  participation  in  Robespierre's 
devilish  schemes.  That  was  to  be  understood. 

The  lovely  Terezia  was  disappointed  at  the  turn  of 
events.  She  had  expected  more  of  the  Dagger  Trick. 
Tallien — growing  his  new  feathers — struck  her  as  a 
lamentable  object.  He  was  greedy,  untruthful,  unpleas- 
ant— not  a  man  a  woman  would  go  out  of  her  way  to 
marry.  The  months  slipped  by  and  the  lovely  Terezia 
gave  her  lover  every  cause  for  impatience — we  might  even 
say  for  jealousy.  Freedom  found  her  ready  for  any 
extravagance.  Her  admirers  were  legion.  Kisses  always 
agreed  with  her.  She  only  laughed  when  Josephine  advised 
moderation.  Prudence  was  totally  out  of  fashion.  Solo- 
mon's teeth !  weren't  they  all  entitled  to  the  best  of  every- 
thing, considering  what  they  had  gone  through? 

"I'll  stop  at  nothing,"  said  Terezia.  "Do  you  re- 
member Wednesday's  soup  at  Les  Cannes?" 

Josephine  made  a  face.  "Please  let  me  forget  it,"  she 
said.  "All  the  same,  I  do  consider  mourning  crepe  and 
red  tulle  incongruous." 

"It  is  a  symbol." 

"What's  that?" 

The  ladies  were  having  tea  at  Bonfreres,  the  celebrated 
pastrycook  in  the  rue  St.  Honore.  Josephine  was  hostess. 

"Take  another  cream  bun,"  she  said.  "I've  had  three; 
they  are  delicious." 

"Thanks,  darling.     I  must  think  of  my  figure." 

"When  are  you  going  to  marry  Tallien?" 


6  LOVE 

"If  only  Tallien  was  a  man  and  not  a  vile  worm,  I'd 
marry  him  to-morrow.  As  it  is,  I  can't  bring  myself  to 
the  point." 

"He'll  get  on,  darling.  A  clever  woman  can  always 
shape  a  husband.  A  pat  here  and  a  pat  there,  and  there 
you  are." 

The  pretty  widow  sat  back  in  her  chair,  looking  the 
picture  of  all  the  virtues. 

Terezia  reflected. 

"Dear,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  wish  people  weren't  such 
beasts.  If  they  hadn't  made  such  a  wicked  fuss,  and  mur- 
dered the  poor  dear  King  and  Queen,  we  would  have  been 
much  better  off.  Do  you  know  jam  has  gone  up  to  three 
hundred  francs  a  pound?" 

Josephine  smiled.  "Paul  is  a  darling,"  she  said,  some- 
what irrelevantly. 

"Anyhow,  madam,"  said  Terezia,  "he  is  useful." 

"Invaluable,"  said  Josephine. 

"Marriage  is  all  the  fashion,"  said  Terezia,  pettishly. 
"You  have  got  to  follow  my  example." 

Josephine  sighed.  "That's  what  all  my  friends  tell  me. 
Find  me  the  man,  Terezia.  He's  got  to  be  young  and 
handsome,  ambitious  and  certain  to  get  on." 

"There's  General  Augereau " 

"Not  my  sort  at  all.     He's  a  block  of  wood." 

"General  Hoche " 

"How  can  you  contemplate  marrying  a  man  who  pro- 
poses by  letter?" 

"You  are  a  horrid  little  wretch." 

"I  am  satisfied  with  my  children." 

"They  don't  bother  you.    True." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing.     Has  Barras  got  the  ballroom  in  order?" 

They  both  laughed. 

"He  is  only  a  dear  friend." 

Terezia  rose.  "I've  five  visits  to  pay,  and  it  is  three 
o'clock.  I  dine  at  five." 

"It  was  charming  of  you  coming." 


LOVE  7 

"A  treat,  Josephine.     How  do  you  like  my  new  hat?" 

"It  is  lovely.     A  little  bit  too  big,  perhaps." 

"Not  an  inch.  Come  along,  darling.  Don't  forget  your 
bag." 

The  ladies  rustled  out  of  the  shop,  leaving  a  trail  of 
scent  behind  them.  The  little  tea  cost  Josephine  five  hun- 
dred francs.  As  we  have  said,  prices  were  ruinous.  Where 
do  people  get  their  money  from?  We  know  Josephine's 
source.  Also  Terezia's.  But  those  people  who  weren't 
in  their  fortunate  circumstances.  Or  did  everyone  have  a 
friend  with  a  private  account  on  the  public  exchequer? 

Josephine  parted  with  Terezia  outside.  She  got  into  a 
cab — private  carriages  were  still  looked  upon  as  savoring 
of  class  and  the  devil.  Madame  de  Beauharnais  preferred 
to  walk.  It  was  only  a  step  to  her  apartment,  she  said. 

On  her  way  she  looked  in  at  Henri's  celebrated  flower- 
shop,  and  selected  a  big  bunch  of  violets  and  lilies.  She 
took  them  with  her.  The  order  was  entered  in  M.  Henri's 
big  ledger.  He  was  particularly  polite  to  his  customer. 

"It  is  pleasure,  citoyewie,  to  serve  you,"  he  said.  "You 
have  such  perfect  taste." 

He  bowed. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Josephine  sweetly. 

From  his  little  diamond-paned  window  the  proprietor  of 
the  best  flower-shop  in  Paris  in  1794  watched  the  lady 
disappear  down  the  crowded  thoroughfare.  She  was  a 
very  graceful  woman. 

It  was  the  last  week  in  November,  and  everything 
pointed  to  a  brisk  winter  season. 

"A  nice  change,"  said  Henri  to  himself.  "I  am  sure 
I  wish  them  the  best  of  good  luck." 

We  expect  he  meant  the  aristocrats,  who  last  season 
had  been  very  much  out  of  favor. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  WEEK  later,  M.  Paul  Barras  paid  Josephine  de 
*"*-  Beauharnais  a  visit.  He  was  very  kind  in  coming 
to  see  her. 

She  had  dressed  herself  in  her  prettiest  clothes.  After 
five  months'  widowhood  she  permitted  herse1^  shades  of 
lilac,  grey  and  white.  Black  was  too  sad.  'And  black 
and  red — as  she  had  said  to  Terezia — was  vulgar. 

This  afternoon  she  was  looking  her  very  best  and  was 
charmingly  gay  and  confident  of  the  future. 

They  were  seated  in  front  of  the  fire — Josephine  curled 
up  on  the  hearth-rug,  with  an  elbow  on  M.  Barras'  knee. 
He  in  the  pink  velvet  chair.  The  hearth-rug  was  of  white 
fur.  The  little  drawing-room,  scented  by  lilies  and  violets, 
was  not  over-lighted.  In  fact,  the  fire,  which  burned  very 
clearly,  made  all  the  effect  it  wanted.  The  shaded  lamp 
on  the  satin-wood  round  table  in  front  of  the  big  gilt- 
framed  sofa  didn't  interfere  with  it  at  all. 

"You  are  so  good  to  me,"  she  said. 

"Haven't  I  assured  you  a  thousand  times  I'm  your 
debtor?" 

"Si — si,"  said  Josephine.  "How  nice  it  is  to  be  warm ! 
How  I  have  suffered  from  the  cold." 

"Poor  darling!" 

"We  never  complained.  We  made  a  point  of  never  com- 
plaining. Even  when  the  rats  ran  away  with  our  precious 
soap  we  made  a  joke  of  it." 

"The  past  is  over." 

"Is  it?     Really,  really  over?     Sometimes  I  wake  up  in 
the  night  and  think  I  am  dreaming.     I  touch  my  silk 
counterpane.     'That's  not  a  real  bed,'  I  say- 
He  stopped  her  by  a  kiss. 

8 


LOVE  9 

"Josephine,  I  adore  you." 

"It  would  not  have  been  real  except  for  your  generosity. 
It  was  lucky  meeting  a  fairy  prince  as  you  stepped  out 
of  prison.  I  wrote  to  you  at  once " 

"And  I  came  round  without  the  loss  of  a  moment." 

"So  you  did.  And  Aunt  Fanny  gave  you  tea  and  told 
you  about  my  children." 

"I  was  not  listening." 

"For  shame,  sir!" 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,  and  how  sweet  you  looked " 

"Thin  as  a  post !" 

"ana  that  you  had  the  most  wonderful  eyes  in  the 

world." 

"To  think,"  she  said  softly,  "if  it  had  not  been  for  you 
I  would  have  starved.  Aunt  Fanny's  reticule  wouldn't 
have  gone  round." 

He  laughed.  "Of  course  you  would.  Those  little  hands 
weren't  made  for  work." 

Josephine  jumped  up  and  fetched  a  bag  of  colored  silks 
and  shook  it  at  him.  "Look,  sir,"  she  said;  "my  knitting." 
She  pulled  out  the  heel  of  a  stocking.  "I  must  not  tell  a 
story.  Clementine  helped  me  with  the  heel.  But  I've  done 
nearly  all  the  rest." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"You  are  a  wonderful  little  woman.  Don't  cry;  life 
is  too  short  for  tears." 

"We  are  going  to  live  for  ever.  Oh,  poor  dear  Alex- 
andre!  It  does  seem  hard  on  him.  We  did  not  get  on 
exactly.  But  I've  quite  forgotten  it." 

He  was  silent. 

She  sat  down  on  the  rug  again.  She  held  her  slender 
hands  to  the  blaze,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"On  the  whole  he  was  a  good  husband." 

M.  Barras  cleared  his  throat.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
the  charming  widow's  reminiscences  bored  him  stiff.  The 
late  vicomte  had  never  appealed  to  him. 

"Crown  him,  by  all  means,  madam.  A  dead  man  is 
often  a  hero  to  his  friends." 


10  LOVE 

"Now  you  are  cross.  I  don't  like  you  when  you  arc 
horrid." 

"I  was  furiously  jealous  of  your  late  husband." 

Josephine  turned  round  and  gave  him  a  look,  quite  a 
tender  one.  She  smiled  with  her  mouth  closed,  or  nearly 
so.  A  trick  ladies  learn  who  have  no  teeth  to  disclose. 
Her  teeth  were,  as  you  know,  her  little  purgatory.  Most 
of  them  had  by  this  time  fallen  out.  Dentistry  a  hundred 
years  ago  was  in  its  infancy.  Ladies  who  lost  their  teeth 
went  without.  .  .  .  Napoleon  did  not  mind. 

"I  have  not  known  you  for  all  these  months  without 
finding  out  when  you  are  angry,"  she  said,  nodding  her 
head.  "I  am  really  rather  clever.  I'll  forgive  you  this 
time." 

"Amiable  gentleman,  I  regret  I  did  not  know  him  better." 

"You  would  have  been  great  friends." 

"Under  the  circumstances  I  doubt  it." 

"If  he  had  lived  they  would  not  have  existed.  Alexandre 
would  have  provided  for  his  wife  and  children." 

"God  rest  his  soul !" 

"Are  you  staying  to  dinner?"  said  Josephine,  wisely 
changing  the  subject. 

"I'd  love  to.     But  I  am  up  to  my  ears  in  work." 

"Poor  darling.  That  is  why  you  are  looking  worried. 
Pass  it  over  to  Tallien." 

"He  is  the  man  who  causes  the  work." 

"Oh!" 

"I  have  to  tone  down  his  policy.  He'll  rant  about 
everything,  knowing  nothing  of  the  situation." 

B arras  slapped  his  gloves  against  his  knees.  "I'd  like 
to  murder  him." 

"The  savior  of  France!  Never  forget  he  saved  my 
life." 

"No,  he  didn't.      Pure  chance." 

"Nothing  pure  about  it!  Another  day  and  we  would 
have  died,  or  gone  mad." 

"Don't  think  about  it,  my  little  one.     You  are  safe." 

She  put  her  hand  in  his.     "It  is  like  a  dream,"  she 


LOVE  11 

whispered.  "Just  you  and  I,  and  the  wicked  world  out- 
side." 

"I  never  want  to  leave  you,"  he  said. 

Her  soft  dress  was  of  dove-grey  silk.  An  amber  comb 
shone  in  her  auburn  hair,  and  round  her  slender  neck  she 
wore  a  curious  filigree  necklace  of  gold  and  hammered 
silver,  which  seemed  to  emphasize  her  thinness.  Her  deli- 
cate bust  was  ungirdled,  and  fell  and  rose  with  each 
breath.  At  the  foot  of  her  petticoat  dangled  a  little  sachet 
filled  with  her  favorite  violet  perfume.  Her  shoes  were 
of  grey  satin,  with  silk  stockings  to  match. 

"You  always  have  a  moment  to  spare  for  little 
Josephine." 

"Even  when  she  is  naughty  and  extravagant." 

"Sir,  I'm  not  extravagant!  Everything  is  so  fright- 
fully dear,  except  furniture." 

She  pointed  to  a  magnificent  Louis  XIV  bureau  standing 
in  one  corner  of  her  pretty,  though  rather  overcrowded 
sitting-room. 

"Fancy,  I  got  it  for  a  franc." 

"A  silver  franc  is  a  good  deal  of  money  in  these  times." 

"As  to  your  assignats — I  hate  them." 

She  leaned  forward  and  drew  a  bundle  of  notes  from 
her  silk  bag  and  flung  them  into  the  fire. 

"They  are  absolutely  worthless,"  she  exclaimed.  "Yes- 
terday a  cabman  charged  me  for  an  hour's  drive  a  thousand 
francs.  I've  got  to  pay  a  hundred  francs  for  a  pound 
of  candles,  and  eighty  francs  for  a  pound  of  starch.  And 
gloves — what  do  gloves  cost?" 

"You  threw  at  least  six  pairs  into  the  fire  just  now." 

"How  stupid  of  me !"  she  cried.  "I  am  so  sorry.  For- 
give me." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  a  fine,  imposing  gentleman — with 
a  twinkle  in  his  deep-set  eyes — dressed  in  the  height  of 
the  ornate  fashion  of  the  day.  He  might  have  been 
forty  or  less.  His  thick  dark  hair  was  touched  with  grey 
at  the  temples.  He  was  clean-shaven  except  for  a  small 
moustache  which  barely  hid  his  sensuous  mouth — the 


12  LOVE 

mouth  of  a  man  who  does  not  stand  on  ceremony  and 
who  is  fond  of  life.  His  skin  was  sallow,  save  for  a  red 
flush  on  his  forehead.  He  had  strong,  white  teeth.  As 
the  nominal  head  of  the  Convention,  M.  Barras  had  at 
this  time  every  need  of  his  well-known  courage  and  tact. 

In  the  intimacy  of  his  private  life  M.  Barras  cheer- 
fully forgot  the  dismal  profession  of  politics.  He 
acknowledged  to  himself  that  he  was  master  of  as  ugly 
a  crew  as  ever  sailed  on  unknown  seas.  He  couldn't  see 
a  handsbreadth  in  front  of  him.  So  he  conveniently  shut 
his  eyes,  made  love  to  the  charming  widow  Beauharnais, 
and  let  his  easily — if  somewhat  dubiously — amassed  wealth 
flow  through  his  fingers. 

Even  at  the  worst  stage  of  the  Revolution  he  had  kept 
open  house.  After  the  fall  of  Robespierre  he  immediately 
set  the  social  wheel  revolving.  At  the  Luxembourg  palace 
he  entertained  on  a  princely  scale  when  bread  was  thirty 
francs  a  loaf — which  speaks  volumes  for  his  financial 
genius  if  not  for  his  statesmanship.  His  only  rival  in 
the  art  of  entertainment  was  apparently  ce  Tallien.  Tal- 
lien's  was  not  a  generous  nature.  The  two  men  were 
utterly  and  radically  different.  Barras  was  a  gentleman 
by  birth  and  education.  To  be  exact,  a  vain  and  pompous 
gentleman.  In  his  younger  days  he  had  had  many  adven- 
tures. He  had  sailed  the  high  seas,  some  say  on  a  pirate 
ship.  He  had  ventured  his  life — no,  with  his  no  doubt 
highly-colored  past  we  have  nothing  to  do. 

Josephine — still  kneeling  on  the  hearthrug — looked  up 
at  her  tall  friend  with  a  sweetly  contrite  expression. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  asked. 

"Accept  your  punishment." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  soundly. 

As  in  duty  bound  she  defended  herself  (weakly),  played 
a  good  deal  with  her  fascinating  eyes,  and  at  length 
turned  round  and  buried  her  face  in  a  convenient  fender- 
stool  (covered  with  vieux-bleu  velvet). 

"You  are  such  a  blessing,"  she  murmured. 

"Pshaw  I"  he  said.    "Gratitude  is  the  last  thing  I  want." 


LOVE  13 

She  thought  a  moment  and  looked  up  at  him  critically. 

"I  wonder  they  didn't  guillotine  you." 

"I  was  born  under  a  lucky  star,  madam." 

Again  she  shook  her  head.  "I  suppose  I  am  stupid.  I 
don't  believe  in  that  kind  of  thing.  Terezia  tells  me  Gen- 
eral Bonaparte  accepts  his  present  poverty  because  he 
believes  in  his  own  fortunate  destiny.  Are  you  all  mad?" 

"More  or  less,"  he  smiled.  "A  man  in  love  is  never 
sane." 

"Is  the  little  general  in  love?" 

"I  believe  he  has  proposed  to  his  grandmother " 

"Grandmother?" 

"In  years,  you  know.  However,  the  worthy  Madame 
Permon  has  refused  him." 

"The  idea!     He  must  be  a  droll  person." 

"A  good  marriage  would  help  him  on  in  the  world. 
He  is  rather  in  difficulties  just  at  present." 

"Why  don't  you  assist  him?" 

"I  do  all  I  can.     He  is  an  exceptionally  clever  man." 

"I  don't  like  exceptionally  clever  people." 

Barras  laughed  loudly.  "That  is  one  for  me,"  he  said. 
"Have  you  ever  met  him?" 

"Who?     This  terrifying  Corsican?     Never." 

"You  will  see  him  at  my  house  next  Tuesday." 

"He  does  not  interest  me  in  the  least.  Darling — I  only 
love  one  man  in  the  whole  wide  world." 

For  the  next  half-hour  or  so  they  were  happily  engaged 
by  strictly  personal  matters. 

There  was  scarcely  room  for  two  in  the  pink  velvet 
armchair,  snugly  drawn  up  to  the  fireside,  so  presently 
Josephine  accepted  a  seat  on  M.  Barras'  knee.  She 
declared  she  felt  so  safe  in  his  arms.  She  laid  her  head 
on  his  shoulder  and  shut  her  eyes. 

"You  will  always  love  me?" 

"Always." 

"Until  Never— for  ever?" 

She  played  with  his  hair  and  patted  his  face.  "You  have 
great  responsibilities,  sir,"  she  said. 


14  LOVE 

"I  have  you,"  he  admitted.  "Yes.  Times  are  un- 
certain." 

"I  don't  mind  as  long  as  we  have  nice  parties." 

"My  modest  little  Tuesdays " 

"Your  balls  will  be  heavenly,  of  course.  But  there  is 
only  one  Tuesday  in  every  week,"  she  sighed. 

"We  are  just  starting.  By-and-by  you'll  be  longing 
for  the  country." 

"Never!  I  have  had  enough  of  dullness  to  last  my 
life." 

"I  thought  you  were  fond  of  the  country." 

"So  I  am.  I  was  only  joking.  I  intend,  sir,  to  have  a 
beautiful  estate  with  the  best  gardens  in  France,  some- 
where in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris.  You'll  see,  it  will 
be  a  lovely  house.  I  arranged  it  all  in  prison.  One  room 
will  be  all  in  yellow;  another  in  green.  And  there'll  be 
a  long  south  terrace  prettily  set  out  with  garden  furni- 
ture, and  bordered  with  fabulous  roses.  I  was  born  in 
the  south.  Flowers  and  dreams  belong  to  each  other. 
They  are  inseparable." 

"Am  I  in  the  picture,  Josephine?" 

"But  of  course,"  she  said  sedately;  "you  have  got  to 
give  me  the  house.  Or  if  you  won't,  someone  else  must." 

They  talked  of  the  Talliens.  Josephine  said  she  con- 
sidered it  very  indiscreet  of  her  friend  to  postpone  her 
marriage,  allowing  at  the  same  time  that  she  understood 
her  hesitation. 

"In  her  place  I'd  do  the  same.  He  may  be  a  hero,"  she 
said.  "But  he  has  got  awful  hands.  Objectionable  hands. 
And  there  is  too  much  of  his  smile." 

"A  fox." 

"Is  he?  But  she  must  marry  him.  She  said  so  herself. 
Society  demands  certain  regulations." 

M.  Barras  laughed.  "Don't  trouble  your  dear  little 
head  about  her,"  he  said.  "She  doesn't  interest  me  in 
the  least." 

Josephine  hid  her  face  on  his  breast.  "Oh,  dearest," 
*aid,  "I  pity  you." 


LOVE  15 

He  stroked  her  shining  hair.  "What  is  the  secret?" 
he  asked. 

"Terezia  had  the  enormous  impertinence  to  tell  me  that 
she  admired  you  immensely,  and  that  she  intended,  tout 
simplement,  taking  you  up.  'It  will  be  perfectly  easy,'  she 
said.  'He  is  the  kind  of  man  who  loses  his  head  at  once/  " 
Barras  laughed  constrainedly,  meeting  Josephine's  merry 
glance  rather  awkwardly. 

"The  good-for-nothing  baggage!  Madame,  take  my 
advice  and  leave  the  future  Madame  Tallien  ^severely 
alone." 

Josephine  wriggled.  "I  can't  afford  it.  I  have  so  few 
friends  in  Paris.  Terezia  can  be  very  nice." 

He  wrapped  her  passionately  in  his  strong  arms.  "What 
odd  creatures  you  women  are,"  he  said.  "You  never  keep 
to  the  same  thing  for  one  moment.  Yet  you  are  adorable." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  returned  Josephine,  simply.  (She 
was  entirely  convinced  of  her  rightful  position  in  this 
world.) 

She  sighed  contentedly;  they  were  both  silent,  until 
an  involuntary  shiver  on  her  side  made  Barras  exclaim 
anxiously,  "You  are  not  ill?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Josephine  placidly,  "I  have  never  felt 
better  in  all  my  life.  Feel  my  hands — aren't  they  nice 
and  warm?" 

"You  are  not  accustomed  to  our  climate." 

"It  is  atrocious.  Was  there  ever  such  a  winter?  It  is 
not  yet  Christmas  and  already  the  Seine  is  frozen — ugh !" 

She  turned  and  faced  the  blaze.  "How  the  poor  must 
suffer!" 

"I'll  tell  you  a  piece  of  news " 

Josephine  slipped  off  her  lover's  knees. 

"No,  no,"  she  interrupted.  "I  am  sick  of  news !  I 
know  the  royalists  have  been  pardoned,  and  that  there  is 
a  talk  of  reinstating  the  monarchy " 

"Come  back ;  I  want  you." 

"Hush!     There  is  someone  at  the  door." 

Barras  sprang  to  his  feet. 


16  LOVE 

"Come  in,"  said  Josephine. 

"The  devil " 

"Do  I  disturb  you,  my  dear?  It  was  such  a  fine  after- 
noon, I  ventured  on  a  walk." 

"Not  at  all.  Delighted  to  see  you,  ma  tante.  I  think 
you  know  M.  Barras?" 

"We  are  old  friends,"  smiled  Aunt  Fanny,  kissing  her 
niece  and  extending  a  very  thin  hand  to  M.  Barras. 

Josephine  led  the  old  lady  to  the  seat  of  honor  on  the 
sofa. 

"Not  too  near  the  fire.    I  must  think  of  my  complexion." 

"You  look  as  pink-and-white  as  a  girl,"  said  Madame 
de  Beauharnais.  "You  must  agree  with  me,  monsieur?" 

Barras  bowed  stiffly. 

"Are  you  comfortable?"  asked  Josephine,  slipping  a 
cushion  behind  her  back. 

"Perfectly."  Aunt  Fanny,  with  a  dainty  gesture,  drew 
out  a  large  pocket-handkerchief  from  her  reticule.  "My 
dear,"  she  said.  "The  Talliens  are  married." 

"Married!    Where?    When?" 

"Last  Thursday." 

"How  delightful !  Now  I  can  account  for  Tuesday  and 
Wednesday.  Terezia's  parties  are  sure  to  be  good." 

"I  hope  they  will  be  happy,"  said  Madame  de  Beau- 
harnais, blowing  her  nose. 

"Dear  Aunt  Fanny,  you  are  always  so  kind." 

"And  so  well  informed,"  said  M.  Barras  drily. 


CHAPTER  III 

MADAME  FANNY  DE  BEAUHARNAIS  was  Josephine's  aunt 
by  marriage. 

With  flying  colors  the  redoubtable  lady  had  not  only 
survived  the  horrors  of  the  Revolution,  but  she  had  also 
managed  to  evade  imprisonment;  which  was  a  mystery  to 
her  large  circle  of  acquaintances.  The  fact  remained,  that 
while  her  friends  suffered,  she  retained  her  freedom,  her 
dignity  and  her  vanity. 

She  was — in  those  days  that  rara  avis — an  authoress 
— a  woman  who  had  produced  both  novels  and  poems, 
without  meeting  with  any  marked  success  or  failure.  She 
took  her  vocation  with  great  seriousness  and  continued, 
year  after  year,  to  publish  some  book  or  other. 

"Needless  to  say,  such  a  talented  lady  took  a  lively 
interest  in  the  members  of  her  own  family.  Her  relatives 
never  ceased  to  dread  her  inquisitiveness  and  to  respect 
her  knowledge.  By  common  consent  there  was  nothing 
Aunt  Fanny  did  not  know! 

She  was  certainly  an  amusing  woman  and  an  inveterate 
gossip.  A  morsel  of  scandal  invariably  made  her  seek  her 
voluminous  shawl,  her  furred  bonnet,  her  silver-crooked 
walking-stick  and  hurry  out  of  doors.  She  would  in  the 
happiest  frame  of  mind  continue  her  house-to-house  visita- 
tion, exhorting  her  friends  to  secrecy — for  the  sheer  joy 
of  being  the  first  in  the  field  to  impart  some  particularly 
choice  piece  of  news. 

Josephine  felt  convinced  that  her  aunt  had  been  flying 
round  Paris  since  noon.  The  actual  celebration  of  the 
long-deferred  Tallien  marriage  was  an  event  in  the  social 
world.  ...  So  like  Terezia  to  spring  a  surprise  on  her 
friends.  Anyone  else  would  have  had  a  proper  wedding. 
.  .  .  True,  there  were  reasons  against  festivities  on  a  large 

17 


18  LOVE 

scale.  Does  a  divorced  woman  wear  white  satin  and 
orange-blossoms  on  the  occasion  of  her  re-marriage? 
Josephine  was  not  at  all  sure. 

While  Aunt  Fanny  was  complimenting  M.  Barras  on 
some  creditable  speech  (she  followed  the  political  events 
of  the  day  with  great  interest),  her  niece  let  her  gentle 
eyes  wander  round  her  charming  drawing-room. 

It  was  a  well-furnished  little  flat  of  five  rooms.  Through 
a  vista  of  intervening  apartments,  she  saw  in  the  end  room 
of  all  her  great  bed,  upholstered  in  green  silk  and  lavishly 
carved  and  gilt.  She  knew  it  contained  no  less  than  five 
down  pillows  and  that  under  the  lace  counterpane  there 
Itay  a  stitched  silk  quilt  of  incredible  softness  and 
warmth.  .  .  . 

All  this  in  exchange  for  Les  Carmes,  at  the  price  of 
a  little  complacency  and  the  generosity  of  a  rich  man. 
.  .  .  And  such  a  nice,  kind  man.  .  .  . 

She  glanced  at  Barras  with  affection.  What  a  pity 
she  could  not  love  him !  On  the  whole,  perhaps  it  was 
just  as  well.  This  was  only  an  interlude  in  her  life — 
a  little  affair,  conducted  on  very  respectable  lines.  She 
could  trust  him  not  to  compromise  her  reputation. 

She  wondered  if,  on  the  whole,  she  would  have  the 
heart  to  marry  again.  Would  it  not  be  best  to  content 
herself  with  her  widowhood  and  the  education  of  her 
children?  She  sighed.  Somehow  the  future — on  these 
extremely  prosaic  lines — lacked  attractiveness.  Josephine 
loved  romance.  She  had  even  read  her  aunt's  novels,  and 
wondered  who  had  written  them.  (There  was  a  report 
circulating  in  the  literary  circles  that  Aunt  Fanny's 
authorship  depended  on  the  good-will  of  a  certain  gifted 
but  irresponsible  poet.) 

From  M.  Barras'  finely-cut  profile,  Josephine  looked 
at  her  aunt's  wonderful  face,  which  still  showed  the 
remains  of  good  looks  in  an  extremely  renovated  condition. 

Her  wig  was  elaborately  powdered  and  worn  a  la  Marie 
Antoinette,  adorned  with  a  wreath  of  pink  roses  posed 
coquettishly  on  the  left  side — poor  paper  roses,  they  were 


LOVE  19 

frankly  faded  and  crumpled.  Aunt  Fanny  was  excessively 
careful  in  her  expenditure. 

Her  thin  cheeks  were  daubed  with  indiscriminate  quan- 
tities of  blanc-de-perle  and  geranium  rouge.  By  nature 
meagrely  furnished  with  eyebrows,  the  enterprising  lady 
had  boldly  resorted  to  the  blackest  dye  and  the  most  elab- 
orate curves  art  had  ever  conceived.  Her  eyes,  though 
sunken,  still  gleamed  brightly.  Her  very  red  lips  were 
generously  proportioned. 

Aunt  Fanny  always  deplored  her  niece  Josephine's  tiny 
mouth  as  denoting  a  certain  weakness  of  character.  She 
had  already  prophesied  for  her  an  unenviable  destiny, 
which  ended  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  a  pauper's  grave. 
"Depend  on  it,"  she  would  say,  "such  extravagance  will 
inevitably  prove  your  ruin — poor  child!" 

Josephine  always  took  moral  lectures  with  admirable 
good  temper,  listened  sweetly  and  promised  to  amend  her 
ways  without  in  the  least  altering  her  conduct. 

Madame  Fanny  Beauharnais  was  attired  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned voluminous  silk  dress,  draped  over  an  immense  hoop. 
Her  slender  waist  (of  which  she  was  inordinately  proud) 
was  tightly  corseted.  Report  had  it  that  she  slept  in 
her  iron  stays — which  may  or  may  not  have  accounted  for 
the  sulphur  tint  of  her  shrivelled  bust — but  which  certainly 
pushed  her  figure  out  of  all  proportion. 

Her  bony,  thin  fingers  were  loaded  with  cheap  jewelry. 
Her  neck  was  partly  hidden  under  a  garnet  necklace  of 
fine  workmanship,  set  with  seed-pearls  and  filigree  gold. 
Under  her  chin  she  wore  a  ribbon  of  turquoise-blue  silk. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Josephine?" 

"I  am  going  to  order  you  some  of  your  favorite  milled 
wine." 

"Dear  child,  how  thoughtful  you  are.  I  have  got  a 
charming  niece,  M.  Barras." 

"A  niece  to  be  proud  of,"  he  admitted,  looking  after 
Madame  de  Beauharnais'  graceful  figure  as  she  disappeared 
into  the  dining-room. 

"Her  future  lies  on  my  conscience,  sir." 


20  LOVE 

"An  unnecessary  trouble,  madam." 

"You  mean  she'll  get  on  in  the  world?" 

"Exactly." 

"She  is  not  in  her  first  youth,  and  she  has  got  to  look 
after  a  couple  of  very  high-spirited  children,  at  present 
being  educated  at  their  respective  schools." 

Barras  smiled.     "I'll  find  her  a  suitable  husband." 

"Sir,  he  will  have  to  be  strict." 

"I'll  see  to  that,  madam." 

"A  reliable  gentleman  of  a  good  family — if  you  please." 

"Naturally." 

"In  these  days  one  can't  be  too  careful  about  possible 
connections."  (She  looked  at  him  with  her  head  on  one 
side.) 

"Of  course." 

"I  have  an  extremely  high  opinion  of  your  intelligence, 
M.  Barras."  She  raised  her  mittened  hand  with  an  arch 
gesture.  "As  far  as  I  can  see,  you  honor  my  niece  with 
a  good  deal  of  your  attention.  She  is  attractive,  sir." 

"Extremely  so,  madam." 

"And  some  say  she  is  very  pretty." 

"She  is  lovely." 

"Why  don't  you  marry  her  yourself?  From  every  point 
of  view  the  alliance  would  be  suitable.  You  are  not  too 
young ;  you  have  a  good  position,  and  have  hitherto  evinced 
an  enviable  firmness  of  character.  If  a  man  can  success- 
fully stand  at  the  head  of  the  Convention,  it  follows  that 
he  could  with  equal  success  cope  with  a  foolish  woman.  I 
admit  that  Josephine  has  her  good  qualities,  but  she  is 
hopelessly  extravagant  and  impressionable." 

"You  honor  me  greatly,  madam,"  said  M.  Barras,  feel- 
ing very  embarrassed.  This  solution  of  the  problem  of 
Josephine's  future  had  never  entered  his  mind.  She  was 
charming,  undeniably  charming — but  .  .  .  besides—- 
On the  whole  he  preferred  his  freedom. 

"Surely,  madam,  you  know  that  I  am  a  married  man?" 

"Sir!  A  thousand  pardons.  I  thought  the  lady  dead 
years  ago." 


LOVE  21 

"To  Paris,  madam,  only  Paris." 

Considering  all  his  manifold  duties  and  anxieties  this 
was  not  the  time  to  enter  upon  a  second  marriage.  He 
knew  that  Madame  Josephine  would  be  the  very  first  per- 
son to  agree  with  him.  She  also  preferred,  as  it  were,  to 
take  things  easily.  She  was  a  dear  little,  sensible  soul — 
and  who  cared  a  straw  if  it  amused  her  to  throw  bank- 
notes in  the  fire? 

"Life  is  mysterious,"  said  Madame  Fanny  in  her  deepest 
voice. 

"Very,"  agreed  Barras  politely. 

"Sir,  we  have  all  our  duties  to  perform." 

"Dear  madam — you,  with  your  great  abilities " 

«0h,  sir " 

"Can  understand  that  a  man,  a  lonely  man  in  my  posi- 
tion, appreciates  a  woman's  friendship.  Madame  de  Beau- 
harnais  honors  me  with  her  confidence.  She  is  very  sweet 
and  kind.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  I  know  that  I  am 
welcome  here.  I  can  come  and  go  as  I  like " 

Madame  Fanny  raised  her  eyes  to  the  ornate  ceiling. 
"I  understand  the  situation  completely,"  she  said. 

"If  I  startled  her  by  some  unwarranted  proposition  I 
might  lose  the  little^  ground  I  have  gained." 

"I  retract  my  words.  In  such  matters  it  is  presumption 
to  offer  good  advice." 

"Madam,  I  thank  you." 

He  rose  and  walked  across  the  room,  and  stood  staring 
into  the  fire. 

"How  early  it  gets  dark,"  remarked  Madame  Beauhar- 
nais,  nervously. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  furnished  heavily  with  seals  at 
the  other  end  of  the  short  fob-chain. 

"It  is  close  on  five  o'clock. 

"As  a  man  of  honor " 

He  turned  abruptly  and  faced  her — a  dark  red  flush 
on  his  face.  "You  mistake,  madam,"  he  said,  almost 
roughly.  "I  am  a  selfish  scoundrel." 

Madame  Fanny  could  not  credit  her  ears.     Why  this 


22  LOVE 

sudden  change  of  front?  Had  her  plain-speaking  offended 
him?  As  the  head  of  the  family  she  was  in  the  right  to 
look  after  the  interest  of  her  relatives.  Poor  Alexandre, 
if  he  had  lived !  True,  if  the  honest  colonel  were  alive,  the 
present  delicate  proposition  would  never  have  occurred. 

She  sighed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  formally. 

Happily  she  was  spared  further  awkwardness  by  the 
entrance  of  her  niece,  followed  by  a  charming  little  maid- 
servant carrying  a  tray  of  light  refreshments. 

"Place  it  there,"  said  Madame  Beauharnais,  indicating 
a  table.  "And  bring  in  another  lamp,  Clementine.  It 
will  be  more  cheerful,  ma  tante.  What  have  you  two 
been  talking  about?" 

"All  kinds  of  things,  my  dear.  M.  Barras  has  been 
telling  me  how  fortunate  you  have  been  in  your  recent 
purchases." 

Josephine  stood  with  her  back  to  the  firelight,  with 
a  crystal  jug  in  her  hand,  carefully  pouring  out  some 
claret.  Her  soft  modern  dress  clung  to  her  youthful 
figure.  She  looked  very  slight  and  girlish. 

The  pretty  maid-servant  curtsied  deeply  to  the  ladies, 
and  left  the  room  to  carry  out  her  mistress*  instructions. 
She  seemed  entirely  to  fit  into  the  picture  and  was  a  credit 
to  the  gentle  widow's  orderly  establishment.  Her  quilted 
green  petticoat  was  short  enough  to  reveal  her  high-heeled 
shoes,  red  as  full-blown  poppies.  Her  basqued  bodice  was 
of  some  dark  material  and  her  little  rounded  muslin  apron 
was  furnished  with  two  big  silk  rosettes. 

"Yes,"  said  M.  Barras,  "after  this,  madam,  no  one 
can  call  you  extravagant." 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  Josephine.  "Isn't  it  a  nice  old 
thing?"  She  pointed  to  the  bureau.  "And  that  sofa  over 
there — I  got  it  for  five  francs — real  gilding  and  hand- 
carving  and  covered  in  Aubusson  tapestry." 

Her  aunt  laughed  at  her  serious  tone.  It  was  so 
delicious  to  hear  Josephine  pose  as  the  most  prudent 


LOVE  23 

woman  in  Paris.  Why,  she  did  not  even  know  the  value  of 
vegetables!  She  kept  house  by  paying  money. 

"I  can  congratulate  you  on  your  pretty  home.  I  had 
no  idea  that  poor  dear  Alexandre  had  left  you  so  well  off." 

"He  made  some  lucky  speculations,  ma  tcmte." 

"Very  wrong  of  him,  my  dear.  A  sensible  man  never 
speculates.  A  proposl"  (She  turned  to  M.  Barras.) 
"I  was  talking  yesterday  to  General  Bonaparte  at  the 
Bourriennes' — they  seem  to  have  quite  taken  him  up — he 
is  anxious  to  invest  a  certain  sum  in  house  property " 

"Who?     General  Bonaparte?" 

"Exactly.  He  has  an  extraordinary  way  of  forcing  his 
ideas  on  other  people.  Before  I  had  left,  M.  Bourrienne 
was  prepared  to  advance  him  the  necessary  capital." 

"Not  a  bad  idea.     Paris  is  filling  up." 

"The  old  houses  exist,  and  for  the  most  part  belong 
to  their  rightful  owners." 

Barras  shook  his  head.  "Excuse  me,  madam,  that  is 
unfortunately  not  a  fact.  It  has  been  part  of  our  policy 
to  appropriate  private  property." 

"In  other  words,  you  have  been  robbers,  sir — robbers 
on  a  large  scale." 

She  sat  very  upright,  and  her  eyes  blazed.  Aunt  Fanny 
had  the  courage  of  her  opinions. 

"It  is  all  over,"  said  Josephine  gently.  "We  are  all 
getting  happy  and  good  again."  She  smiled  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"Please  don't  wrangle.  Dearest  Aunt,  I  am  so  tired 
of  politics.  I  know — I'll  set  up  a  beautiful  baker's  shop 
and  bake — oh,  hundreds  of  lovely  hot  loaves,  and  give 
them  away  for  nothing  to  the  poor,  then  I'll  cease  to  hear 
of  their  sufferings." 

"Don't  be  childish,  Josephine.  This  is  not  a  matter 
for  fun." 

"I  am  in  deadly  earnest,"  she  pouted. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  an  edifying  sight  to  find  a  family 
encamped  on  your  doorstep,  and  two  of  them  dead  from 
sheer  want?" 


24  LOVE 

"Of  course  not!  Only  I  hate  hearing  about  horrors. 
I  have  had  quite  sufficient  to  last  my  life." 

"We  must  not  worry  the  sweet  lady,"  said  M.  Barras, 
looking  kindly  at  his  hostess.  "For  the  matter  of  that, 
madam,  we  are  all  doing  our  best  to  alleviate  distress." 

"A  teaspoonful  of  oil  to  a  barrel  of  vinegar — I  would 
like  to  know  who  tastes  the  difference,"  said  Madame 
Fanny  in  her  sharpest  voice. 

"Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day,"  said  Josephine.  "Two 
lumps  of  sugar  and  a  little  cinnamon — isn't  that  how  you 
like  it?" 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  can't  sleep  at  night  for  dread 
of  the  future.  I  blush  when  I  think  how  history  will 
talk  of  us — say  a  hundred  years  hence." 

Josephine,  behind  her  aunt's  back,  made  a  wry  face 
at  M.  Barras. 

"Who  cares  what  happens  in  a  hundred  years?"  she 
said.  "We  will  all  be  dead  and  buried  and  finished  with 
by  then.  No  one  will  even  remember  the  existence  of 
poor  little  Josephine."  She  came  across  the  room  towards 
her  aunt.  "Say  it  is  good!" 

The  old  lady  accepted  the  tumbler  of  wine  offered  her, 
took  a  sip,  and  put  it  down  on  the  table  beside  her. 

"Excellent.  There  is  nothing  so  hopeless  as  to  battle 
against  egoism.  We  will  leave  the  subject,  my  dear. 
What  might  this  wine  have  cost  you?" 

Josephine  smiled.  She  very  nearly  said,  "A  kiss,9'  but 
prudently  refrained.  "A  thousand  francs  a  bottle,"  she 
answered.  "It  sounds  awfully  expensive,  but  it  is  quite 
nice,  so  it  does  not  matter.  Monsieur,  please  help  your- 
self." 

"Mark  my  words,"  said  Madame  Beauharnais,  "in 
another  hundred  years  some  fool  will  be  giving  a  thousand 
francs  for  your  old  sofa,  and  one  franc  for  a  bottle  of 
new  wine.  Of  what  account  is  progress?  We  practically 
remain  on  the  same  spot." 

"We  are  all  savages  at  heart,  madam."    Barras  spoke 


LOVE  25 

slowly,  looking  at  Josephine,  standing  upright  against  the 
white-panelled  wall. 

The  widow  Beauharnais,  as  if  conscious  of  his  scrutiny, 
replied,  "Life  has  only  room  for  to-day  and  to-morrow." 

"And  what  of  yesterday?"  asked  her  aunt  softly. 

"Yesterday  does  not  belong  to  the  living,  but  to  his- 
tory," said  Barras. 

"That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,"  replied  the  old  lady, 
drawing  herself  erect  with  a  proud  gesture.  "In  my  young 
days  we  at  least  respected  our  dead." 

Josephine  hung  her  head.  Her  lips  drooped.  Her  heavy 
eyelashes  swept  her  flushed  cheeks.  (Barras,  staring 
broadly,  considered  her  at  that  moment  a  very  enchanting 
person.) 

"We  must  sacrifice  ourselves,"  declared  the  widow 
mournfully.  "We  have  all  agreed  to  bury  the  past.  As 
in  war,  we  mourn  our  dead  with  pride." 

"A  very  beautiful  sentiment,  my  dear,  especially  when 
easily  carried  out.  I  am  not  blaming  you,  child."  She 
snapped-to  her  immense  reticule  and  held  out  a  conciliatory 
hand. 

Josephine  stepped  forward  and,  kneeling  down,  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  aunt's  lap. 

"There,  dear  Josephine,  pray  calm  yourself." 

"It  hurts,"  she  murmured.  "I  did  my  best  for  him, 
and  I  will  always  keep  his* memory  sacred." 

"I  am  sure  you  will."  The  old  lady  almost  winked  at 
M.  Barras,  as  much  as  to  say,  "How  can  you  resist  her?" 

The  atmosphere  was  a  little  strained. 

M.  Barras  bravely  tried  to  turn  the  conversation,  and 
racked  his  brain  to  find  a  cheerful  topic. 

"Madam,  were  you  present  at  the  Tallien  wedding?" 

"No,  sir.     A  civil  marriage,  and  private  at  that." 

"Who  were  the  witnesses?" 

"M.  Freron  and  M.  Masson." 

"H'm!"  said  Barras,  flicking  a  grain  of  dust  from  his 
coat.  "I  wonder  if  Tallien  will  ever  get  his  deserts?" 

Josephine  got  up  and  dried  her  eyes. 


26  LOVE 

"He  seems  to  be  a  very  lucky  man,"  she  sighed,  sitting 
down  by  the  table  in  the  lamplight,  and  selecting  a  sweet- 
meat from  a  box  lying  by  her  elbow. 

"We  can  none  of  us  escape  justice,"  said  the  old  lady, 
folding  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Barras  respectfully.  In  spite  of 
her  wonderful  make-up  Madame  de  Beauharnais  had  a 
strong  face.  Beneath  her  vanity  and  her  pitiable  at- 
tempts to  improve  her  appearance  there  lay  a  dogged 
honesty  of  purpose. 

"Who  can  escape  disappointment,  sorrow,  sickness?  If 
we  only  live  long  enough  we  must  learn  our  lesson  with  as 
good  a  grace  as  we  can." 

"There  are  exceptions  to  every  rule." 

"No,  sir.  Old  age  is  never  agreeable."  She  touched 
her  face  with  a  grim  smile.  "Don't  you  think  I  regret 
my  lost  beauty?" 

Josephine,  in  the  act  of  putting  another  chocolate  in 
her  mouth,  stopped  and  looked  at  her  aunt. 

Madame  de  Beauharnais'  face  glistened  in  the  lamp- 
light as  a  freshly-painted  canvas.  Her  eyes  looked  remark- 
ably bright.  The  faded  wreath  of  artificial  roses  on  her 
white  wig  looked  curiously  withered. 

"Have  a  chocolate,  dear  tante.     They  are  excellent." 

"Thank  you,  I  never  eat  sweets.  But  if  you  will  per- 
mit me,  I  will  take  home  two  or  three.  My  neighbor's 
little  boy  will  appreciate  them." 

"Oh,  please  do." 

Josephine's  eyes  twinkled  as  they  met  those  of  M. 
Barras. 

The  old  lady,  with  a  dignified  gesture,  opened  her  reti- 
cule. "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  accustomed  to  luxuries. 
I  made  my  dejeuner  to-day  on  an  apple,  and  I  had  some 
fruit  given  me  from  Volnay."  As  she  spoke  she  absent- 
mindedly  kept  filling  her  bag  with  Josephine's  chocolates. 
"A  rosy-cheeked  winter  apple  is  not  to  be  despised.  By 
the  way,  Terezia  has  decided  on  a  house  in  the  Bois." 

"I  know." 


LOVE  27 

"It  is  called  La  Chaumiere.  An  odd  fancy  of  hers.  My 
dear,  I  am  not  robbing  you,  am  I  ?  There  is  a  young  man 
behind  this,"  she  said  archly,  pushing  the  empty  box  across 
the  table. 

Josephine  glanced  at  M.  Barras. 

"Ah !"  said  Fanny  good-naturedly,  snapping-to  her  bag. 
"So  you  accept  presents  from  M.  Barras!" 

"A  little  chocolate "  said  Josephine  guilelessly. 

"I  have  been  young  myself,"  admitted  Madame,  rising 
and  standing  very  upright. 

Madame  de  Beauharnais'  reticule  was  about  as  famous 
as  herself.  She  was  never  seen  without  it.  By  common 
report  it  was  her  store-cupboard,  just  as  much  as  "my 
neighbor's  little  boy"  was  her  polite  fiction.  (After  all, 
in  these  hard  times  it  was  just  as  well  to  be  economical.) 

"You  are  not  going?"  said  Josephine.  "Won't  you 
stay  and  dine  with  me  and  share  my  dull  evening?" 

"Impossible,  impossible.  I  am  going  on  to  the  Tre- 
moilles,  and  I  have  half  promised  to  look  up  the  St. 
Innocents." 

"How  is  the  duchess?" 

"No  better.     The  doctors  doubt  of  her  recovery." 

"What  a  sad  case!" 

"Yes,  very.  At  what  time  do  you  dine?  I  smell  cab- 
bage-soup." She  sniffed.  "My  favorite  dish." 

"At  five  o'clock." 

"How  fashionably  late  we  are !  You  will  see,  M.  Barras, 
that  my  niece  will  one  day  become  quite  an  important 
person.  I  must  run." 

She  swept  a  magnificent  curtsey,  which  Josephine  re- 
turned with  equal  ceremony. 

"How  hideous  are  the  new  fashions,"  said  the  old  lady. 
" Josephine  looks  like  a  dish-cloth  wrung  out  in  water." 

"You  wicked,  unkind  aunt !"  laughed  Madame  Beau- 
harnais. 

"Well,  good-bye,  dear.  If  you  have  a  spare  ticket 
for  Talma  to-morrow,  remember  me.  I  am  not  too  old 
to  appreciate  talent." 


28  LOVE 

Josephine,  through  her  lace  blinds,  looked  out  of  the 
window.  "It  is  almost  pitch-dark,"  she  declared.  "Really, 
it  is  not  safe  for  you  to  walk  alone." 

"I  have  only  a  hundred  yards  to  go." 

"It  is  much  further  to  the  Rue  de  Babylone.  Let 
Clementine  call  you  a  cab." 

"I  haven't  got  a  thousand  francs  to  spare." 

"Perhaps  madam  will  allow  me  to  accompany  her?  Our 
ways  are  practically  the  same." 

"Sir,  I  will  be  charmed." 

Aunt  Fanny  bridled  and  blushed  as  a  schoolgirl.  She 
dearly  loved  attention. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  Josephine." 

Josephine  played  with  her  rings.  "What  am  I  to  do?" 
she  said. 

"Read  an  edifying  book,  or  go  to  sleep,"  counselled  her 
aunt. 

"Of  the  two  evils  I  prefer  to  sleep.  I  will  try  my  best 
to  get  you  a  seat,  but  I  am  afraid  all  the  tickets  are  sold." 

"Never  mind,  dear.  I  am  not  afraid  of  my  own  society. 
When  I  sit  alone  I  am  always  contented.  There  is  no 
better  company  than  an  easy  conscience,  an  excellent 
digestion  and — imagination.  Build  castles  in  the  air, 
Josephine." 

Josephine  held  up  her  two  empty  hands. 

"Alas !"  she  said,  "without  materials  how  can  I  manage?" 

"Well,  make  them." 

"Madam " 

"I  won't  keep  you  waiting  another  moment,  sir.  A 
happy  new  year,  dear,  in  case  we  don't  meet  again  this 
side  of  Christmas." 

M.  Barras  kissed  Josephine's  outstretched  hand.  "Au 
revoir,  madam,"  he  said.  "May  I  also  add  my  good  wishes? 
All  the  luck  in  the  world." 

"Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind."  She  spoke  demurely, 
looking  on  the  ground.  "Au  revoir,  monsieur." 

(She  knew  that  he'd  be  back  again  within  an  hour  or 
two.) 


LOVE  29 

He  held  open  the  door  for  Madame  de  Beauharnais  to 
pass  through.  "One  moment,"  he  whispered  to  Josephine. 
"Angel,  I  adore  you!  Say  you  love  me  a  little?" 

"Darling!" 

He  snatched  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  hot  lips. 

"Josephine,  don't  come  out  here,"  called  Madame  Beau- 
harnais.  "It  is  quite  chilly." 

Josephine,  conscious  of  her  neglected  duties,  flew  across 
the  room  to  the  dining-room.  "Clementine!"  she  called. 
"Do  hurry.  My  aunt  is  just  going." 

The  pretty  little  maid-servant  appeared  from  some  mys- 
terious doorway.  "Out,  madam,"  she  answered  breath- 
lessly, running  past  Josephine  to  assist  Madame  de  Beau- 
harnais  with  her  multitudinous  wraps. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  street  door  slammed. 

Clementine  returned  to  the  dining-room,  lit  the  candles, 
and  laid  the  cloth. 

Presently  she  came  softly  into  the  drawing-room 
removed  the  tray  and  asked  her  mistress  at  what  time 
she  would  dine. 

"When  M.  Barras  returns." 

The  maid  curtsied  and  withdrew. 

Josephine,  left  alone,  rose  from  her  seat  by  the  fire 
and  went  in  search  of  a  pack  of  cards.  She  would  pass 
the  time  before  dinner  in  telling  her  own  fortune. 

She  shuffled  the  cards,  pushed  back  her  hair  from  her 
forehead  and  was  soon  intent  on  her  game. 

"The  ten  of  hearts — that  means  money.  And  the  king 
of  diamonds? " 

She  thought  a  moment  and  then  called  loudly: 

"Clementine!  Clementine!" 

"Yes,  madam?" 

Josephine,  without  looking  up,  kept  on  dealing.  "Tell 
cook  to  be  sure  to  serve  the  apple-tart  very  hot,  and  not 
to  forget  the  cream." 

"Yes,  madam." 

With  lightning  rapidity  Josephine  uncovered  her  cards. 


30  LOVE 

They  lay  in  a  great  circle  on  the  satinwood  table  in  the 
full  light  of  the  lamp.  She  was  exceedingly  lucky. 

"Madam?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Cook  has  run  out  of  cream,  and  has  no  money." 

Josephine  impatiently  pointed  to  her  workbag  lying 
on  the  hearthrug.  "Bring  it  to  me,"  she  said. 

Clementine  did  as  she  was  told. 

Josephine,  with  a  little  frown,  pulled  open  the  bag, 
shook  it,  took  out  a  handful  of  different  articles — scissors, 
pins,  a  scrap  of  embroidery,  a  book  of  patterns.  Then 
she  remembered  her  own  stupidity. 

"I  have  no  money  at  home.  Do  you  mean  to  say  she 
has  spent  all  I  gave  her  yesterday?" 

"Yes,  madam.    Prices  are  terrible,  and  no  credit  given." 

"How  provoking!" 

Josephine  again  shook  her  offending  bag. 

"Cream  has  risen  to  a  hundred  francs  a  pint,  since 
yesterday,"  said  Clementine,  looking  demurely  at  her 
pretty  red  shoes. 

"They  are  mad." 

Madame  de  Beauharnais,  from  a  gold  purse  attached  to 
a  long  chain  round  her  neck,  handed  Clementine  a  fifty- 
centimes  in  silver. 

"Tell  cook  not  to  sell  it  under  five  hundred  francs." 

"Yes,  madame."  With  a  bright  smile  the  girl  left  the 
room. 

Josephine  shuffled  her  cards  impatiently.  "I  had  notes 
for  ten  thousand  francs  on  Tuesday — where  have  they  all 
gone  to?"  she  asked  herself.  "Never  mind,"  she  mused; 
"it  is  the  privilege  of  men  to  pay  women's  bills.  .  .  .  Barras 
will  be  more  than  delighted  to  hand  me  over  some  of  that 
detestable  paper  money.  Poor  dear  man,  he  is  so  gener- 
ous! .  .  .  He  is  rather  careful  in  some  ways.  I  don't 
believe  he  would  divorce  his  wife  and  marry  me,  even  if 
I  were  willing  to  sacrifice  myself  on  account  of  the  chil- 
dren. ...  I  am  so  glad  Eugene  has  his  father's  sword,  and 
that  he  values  it.  How  he  wept  when  I  gave  it  to  him! 


LOVE  31 

He  would  not  part  with  it,  no,  not  for  anything  in  this 
world.  Only  eleven,  and  such  a  determined  character.  . . ." 

Again  the  pasteboard  circle  gleamed  redly  under  the 
light  of  the  lamp.  Not  a  single  black  card  had  turned  up ! 

She  nodded  her  head,  utterly  oblivious  of  the  trials  of 
housekeeping.  "My  children!"  she  said  aloud.  "Your 
dear  mother's  future  is  assured.  .  .  .  Plus  que  Reme?  .  .  . 
I  wonder  ...  I  wonder  .  ,  ." 


CHAPTER  IV 

T  A  CHAUMIERE  was  an  ideal  home  for  a  young  mar- 
-"  ried  couple.  A  low,  rambling  building,  with  a 
thatched  roof  and  quaint-latticed  windows,  situated  in  a 
fashionable  quarter  of  Paris,  in  the  Bois — Terezia  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  it  at  once. 

In  spite  of  a  driving  snowstorm  at  the  time,  she  realized 
its  potential  qualities.  In  summer,  when  the  roses  were 
out  (she  would  have  masses  of  roses) — when  the  horse- 
chestnuts  in  the  great  long  avenue  leading  down  to  the 
river  were  shady  and  green — when  the  birds  chirped  and 
sang — it  would  look  simply  lovely. 

Tallien  Lad  offered  to  buy  his  bride  an  historic  mansion 
in  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  a  great,  gloomy  hotel,  splen- 
didly furnished. 

"No,  she'd  have  none  of  it.  La  Chaumiere — the  quaint 
little  farm-house — appealed  to  her.  Of  course  there  was 
room  for  improvement.  Tallien  had  shocking  bad  taste 
(so  she  said)  in  most  things,  and  not  in  the  least  in 
furnishing. 

She  was  not  going  to  live  in  an  old  Jew's  shop!  The 
place  was  overcrowded — the  rooms  were  caricatures  of 
a  great  man's  establishment.  Did  Tallien  imagine,  par 
exemple,  that  she  was  color-blind?  Yellow  satin  draperies, 
crimson  velvet  sofas,  and,  if  you  please,  black  lacquered 
cabinets  from  his  late  majesty's  Chinese  collection.  Where 
were  the  Mandarin's  embroidered  slippers? 

She'd  darted  this  question  at  him  one  day,  shortly  after 
their  marriage,  when  they'd  come  to  live  at  the  place. 
The  sharp  point  of  her  irony  had  escaped  him.  He  stood 
looking  at  her,  with  his  mouth  open. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  my  dear." 

32 


LOVE  33 

"You're  a  fool.     Give  me  the  money,  and  go." 

Only  a  fortnight  married.  T'ja! — t'ja!  As  a  marriage 
it  did  not  look  promising.  Truth  to  tell,  our  big  roaring 
lion  of  Bordeaux  had  been  transformed  into  a  tame  cat, 
a  cat  not  quite  certain  of  his  cream,  living  in  dread  of 
kicks.  Horrid  for  him. 

Not  even  his  wife's  beauty  made  up  to  him  for  her  want 
of  sympathy. 

"I'm  not  made  of  money.     You'll  ruin  me,  ma'am." 

"My  dear  Tallien,  to  hear  you  speak  one  would  imagine 
you  were  three  years  old." 

"You  are  a  damned  unpleasant  woman." 

"Don't  be  rude.  I  have  three  hundred  people  coming 
on  Wednesday.  They'll  eat  for  six  hundred." 

"What's  the  idea?" 

"Progress,  power,  ambition.  I  intend  to  get  on.  I'm 
the  fashion.  Tallien,  go  down  on  your  knees  and  thank 
God  that  I  have  married  you." 

She  spoke  very  earnestly — from  her  seat  on  a  sofa  in  the 
ball-room.  It  had  two  chandeliers,  a  polished  parquet 
floor,  and  magnificent  curtains  of  lace,  and  daffodil-yellow 
satin.  Altogether  a  ludicrous  room  in  a  cottage.  La 
Chaumiere  was  little  else.  By  throwing  two  or  three  rooms 
together  Madame  Tallien  had  evolved  her  salon.  It  was 
going  to  be  the  centre  of  fashionable  Paris. 

"You  are  a  wonderful  woman,"  he  said. 

She  smiled. 

"That's  talking  sensibly,"  she  said  kindly.  "You  know 
our  interests  are  the  same.  I  help  you.  And  you  help 
me — eh?" 

She  held  out  her  shapely  hand. 

"We  are  getting  on  like  a  house  on  fire." 

In  the  next  room  half  a  score  of  upholsterers  and  dec- 
orators were  at  work.  The  yellow  salon  was  nearly  ready. 

"I  can  see  the  crowds.  I'll  set  the  fashion.  We'll  have 
Greek  dresses  to  start  with." 

She  looked  reflectively  at  the  sweep  of  her  limbs,  then 
up  at  her  husband. 


34  LOVE 

"And  you,  you'll  look  like  a  butterfly.  One  ot  Joseph- 
ine's tropic  butterflies.  Aren't  you  happy,  little  lion? 
Dear  little  lion!'5 

Her  hand  was  still  held  out.  Like  some  performing 
monkey  he  obeyed  the  voice  of  his  charmer.  One  by 
one  he  took  out  of  a  knitted  green  silk  purse  ten  pieces 
of  gold  and  dropped  them  one  by  one  into  her  hand. 

The  last  piece  went  with  a  choke. 

"You'll  ruin  me,"  he  blubbered. 

"Foolish  little  man,  just  when  I  am  making  you !  You 
are  going  to  look  like  a  hero  and  a  dictator.  Like  a 
Roman,  draped  in  something.  Yes?  I  am  here." 

An  upholsterer  came  forward,  with  a  length  of  bro- 
cade in  his  hand. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  citoyenne,  but  I  would  greatly 
esteem  your  attention  for  an  instant." 

Tallien  looked  after  her  as  she  walked  into  the  next 
room.  There  was  hatred  in  his  eyes. 

"She  spends  my  money  like  water,"  he  thought.  "In 
her  heart  she  despises  me.  .  .  .  Eh?  I'll  give  her  a 
start.  I'll  be  top  dog  yet!  I'll  beat  'em  all  into  jelly. 
They  are  insolent,  are  they?  Tallien  is  no  good.  Damn 
their  impertinence!  I  have  got  the  people,  the  starving 
people.  Let  them  dance !  She  and  her  lot.  Barras  and 
his  lot.  I'll  turn  the  music  on.  And  it'll  suit  me,  down 
to  the  ground.  Ha-ha-ha  !" 

Upon  which  pleasing  reflection  Man-Tallien  allowed 
his  lackey  to  hoist  him  into  a  wonderful  short-waisted  blue 
face-cloth  coat  adorned  with  silver  buttons  and  a  huge 
velvet  collar.  His  hat  was  of  yellow  plush.  His  silver- 
headed  cane  was  of  cherry-wood. 

"She's  a  lucky  little  woman,"  he  murmured  to  his 
reflection  in  the  mirror.  "In  the  street  I'm  popular.  At 
The  Cow  I'm  loved." 

The  Cow  was  his  favorite  tavern.  There  he  had  his 
own  particular  set  of  friends  and  his  own  table.  He  paid 
the  drinks.  He  paid  for  everything.  In  return  he  talked 
in  his  cups  and  out  of  them.  Always  nonsense.  "You 


LOVE  35 

can't  make  a  straw  figure  live,"  as  said  the  poet.  "Not 
even  in  verse."  "My  dear  friends,"  said  Tallien,  beaming 
on  all  alike,  not  a  whit  put  out.  .  .  .  (Wait,  and  you'll 
hear  for  yourself.  There's  a  treat  in  store  for  you.  That 
is  to  say,  if  you  are  fond  of  music.) 

Citoyen  Tallien  swaggered  back  into  the  saloon  and 
called  out  to  his  wife. 

"Don't  wait  dinner  for  me.  I  have  important  business 
in  town." 

She  never  answered  him.  She  and  the  upholsterers  were 
busy  selecting  hangings. 

"Palms  here,"  she  said.  "And  that  gilt  screen  by 
the  door." 

"Why  so  glum?  What  are  you  thinking  of?  I  hate 
being  stared  at  over  the  top  of  a  newspaper." 

"Of  a  lost  opportunity." 

Terezia  sipped  her  coffee. 

She  put  down  her  cup.  "It  seems  to  me  you  took  a 
very  fair  advantage  of  your  lucky  days." 

Her  eyes  fell  approvingly  on  a  charming  silver  coffee- 
set  set  out  in  front  of  her. 

"I  always  liked  the  Rochefort  silver,"  she  said  reflec- 
tively, "but  I  must  have  their  initials  and  crest  removed. 
People  might  think  we  stole  it." 

Tallien  did  not  answer.  He  rustled  his  paper,  looking 
at  his  wife  over  its  edge.  She  could  not  see  his  mouth 
—his  grinning,  loose  mouth,  now  blankly  distrustful. 
How  he  hated  Terezia's  playing  little  jokes. 

They  were  having  breakfast  in  the  little  dining-room. 

Such  a  warm,  pleasant  room. 

The  two  windows  were  hung  with  green  velvet  curtains. 
(Outside  a  white  world  of  driven  snow — an  unusual  sight 
in  Paris.)  The  white-panelled  walls  were  hung  with  valu- 
able pictures,  representing  several  notable  private  collec- 
tions. The  parquet  floor  was  partly  covered  with  an 
ancient  silk  Persian  carpet  of  indescribable  and  harmonious 
shades.  The  furniture  was  of  Louis  XIII  period,  all 


36  LOVE 

except  the  little  round  breakfast-table  with  its  white  lace- 
edged  cloth  and  inviting  breakfast  dishes. 

The  Talliens  lived  well. 

Terezia  was  wearing  a  simple  morning  gown  of  pastel- 
blue  silk,  edged  round  the  wide  sleeves  and  the  open  neck 
with  a  narrow  line  of  sable.  By  a  stroke  of  genius  her 
dressmaker  had  embroidered  one  single  pale  pink  rose, 
tucked  carelessly  within  the  revers. 

As  Terezia  put  down  the  heavy  cream- jug,  she  disclosed 
an  inner  sleeve  of  old  Mechlin  and  a  lining  of  flesh-pink 
ninon.  The  lace  was  repeated  at  her  bosom,  where  the 
loose  gown  fell  away,  showing  the  lines  of  her  throat. 

She  wore  her  hair  simply  gathered  together  in  a  knot. 
Her  cheeks,  in  spite  of  her  late  hours,  were  as  fresh  as 
the  morning.  The  sun  was  shining  on  the  snow. 

"Pass  me  that  dish  of  game,  will  you?" 

He  pushed  it  clumsily  across  the  table. 

"Why  don't  the  men  wait  at  lunch?"  he  asked  sulkily. 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  charming  smile.  "One  lackey 
is  quite  sufficient  for  me,  thank  you." 

"Go  to  hell!"  he  spluttered. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"I  said  nothing." 

She  had  already  done  justice  to  a  mushroom  omelette 
and  to  an  excellent  trout  (caught  that  morning  and  fried 
in  cream),  but  none  the  less  she  appreciated  the  partridge. 

"Quite  tender,"  she  murmured,  placing  her  heavy  silver 
fork  on  the  knife-rest,  and  dissecting  the  wing  with  her 
fingers.  She  did  it  quite  daintily.  She  held  the  wing  to 
her  mouth  and  picked  off  the  meat  with  her  strong  white 
teeth. 

He  looked  at  her  enviously,  half  leaning  forward,  his 
arms  sprawling  on  the  table.  The  newspaper  had  fallen 
on  the  floor.  He  had  no  appetite. 

"Bad  news?"  she  asked,  wiping  her  fingers  carefully 
on  her  serviette. 

"The  papers  never  tell  anything." 

"Not  even  about  me?" 


LOVE  37 

"I  never  looked." 

"No,"  she  said  thoughtfully;  "you  never  do.  I  might 
have  been  mistaken,  but  I  thought  last  night  at  the  theatre 
that  some  of  the  people  were  less  enthusiastic." 

"No,"  he  answered  doggedly. 

"Just  as  you  please.  However,  no  one  can  exist  for 
ever  on  the  past,  be  it  ever  so  glorious." 

"I  would  like  to  know  to  whose  advantage "  he 

yelled. 

"Now,  don't  excite  yourself.  I  fully  appreciate  the 
significance  of  the  IX  Thermidor.  Tallien  is  my  hero,  as 
well  as  the  idol  of  Paris." 

He  groaned.     "My  head  is  on  fire,"  he  said. 

"This  peaceful  life  does  not  suit  you." 

A  canary  from  an  adjoining  room  burst  into  an  ecstasy 
of  song. 

"Dicky !     Dicky !"  called  his  mistress  encouragingly. 

"Can't  you  ever  be  serious?  I  tell  you,  times  are  omi- 
nous. All  the  trash  they  write  in  the  papers  cannot  hide 
the  main  facts.  We  are  ripe  for  another  revolution." 

The  canary  drowned  Terezia's  reply — if  she  made  any. 

"If  I  could  trust  you "  he  began. 

"You  needn't.  I  know  everything,"  she  replied  tran- 
quilly. 

He  laughed,  one  of  his  immense,  loud  laughs. 

"What  a  noise  you  two  make,"  she  said  plaintively. 

"There  will  be  greater  noise  presently.  Barras  thinks 
he  is  the  cock  of  the  walk.  He  is  too  sure  of  himself." 

"At  least  he  never  screams." 

"If  I  choose,  madame,  I'll  howl!  I'm  master  in  my 
own  house." 

"I  wish,"  said  Terezia  still  more  plaintively,  to  no  one 
in  particular,  "that  I  had  married  in  my  own  set." 

His  head  rocked,  but  something  in  her  tone  calmed  him. 
His  burst  of  rage  gave  place  to  maudlin  sentiment. 

"Darling,"  he  whimpered,  "you  know  I  love  you  and 
that  the  day  you  married  me  was  the  proudest  one  in  my; 


38  LOVE 

life.  Haven't  I  shown  you  times  out  of  number  proofs 
of  my  devotion?  Darling,  you  treat  me  badly.  If  I  was 
jealous  I'd  never  have  a  moment's  peace.  Sometimes  I 
cannot  endure  the  sight  of  your  lovers.  Once  you  loved 
me  .  .  .  yes,  you  loved  me,"  he  repeated  mournfully. 

Terezia  was  not  listening. 

He  got  up  and  stood  over  her;  his  hands  working  con- 
vulsively. 

"Terezia,  for  the  sake  of  our  unborn  child 

"Be  quiet!" 

"Say  you  forgive  me.  You  must  not  be  angry  with 
me,  Terezia.  I  cannot  bear  it !  I  can't  sleep  at  night  for 
thinking  of " 

"Why  this  scene?  If  I  give  you  cause  for  jealousy — 
and  really  and  truly,  it  is  hard  to  blame  a  beautiful  woman 
if  men  find  her  attractive — I  have  ample  proof  of  your 
unfaithfulness." 

He  beat  his  hand  on  his  chest. 

"I  swear  by  my  son's   salvation 

"Don't !  It  is  so  unnecessary.  I  don't  mind  your  love- 
affairs.  I  only  deplore  your  taste.  Will  nothing  make 
you  a  gentleman,  Tallien?" 

"You  treat  me  like  a  dog  ...  yet  I  love  you  ...  I 
respect  you.  We  have  only  been  married  barely  a 
month " 

"It  seems  longer." 

"Let  us  begin  again." 

She  drummed  her  fingers  on  the  table.  "With  pleas- 
ure," she  said  carelessly. 

He  fell  on  his  knees. 

She  drew  back  her  skirts  in  genuine  alarm.  "Whatever 
you  do,  don't  kiss  my  feet!  I  can't  stand  it!" 

"Terezia,  Terezia !"  he  moaned,  hiding  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

She  looked  down  at  his  thick,  wavy,  black  hair.  "What 
a  wreck  of  a  bad  man,"  she  thought,  almost  regretfully. 
Yet  he  was  young  enough  as  far  as  years  went.  Not  yet 
thirty.  About  ten  years  her  senior  ...  It  was  ridiculous 


LOVE  39 

at  barely  twenty  to  have  lived  through  all  her  experiences. 
...  It  seemed  such  an  age  since  her  mother  had  brought 
her  to  Paris,  a  shy  little  girl  of  twelve.  Two  years  later 
they  had  married  her  to  M.  le  marquis  de  Fontenay.  No, 
certainly  she  had  not  been  lucky  in  her  marriages !  Had 
she  ever  loved  Tallien,  that  big,  loose-built  criminal,  kneel- 
ing at  her  feet?  Or  had  she  always  despised  him?  At 
Bordeaux  he  had  saved  her  life,  and  she  had  paid  hand- 
somely for  his  kindness.  .  .  .  She  touched  his  bowed  head. 
No,  it  would  never  do  if  Tallien  lost  his  nerve !  The  silly 
creature  might  pull  her  down.  .  .  . 

"Dear,"  she  said,  "we  must  be  sensible."  And  she 
stroked  his  hair. 

He  put  a  fold  of  her  dress  between  his  teeth. 

"I  am  not  afraid!"  she  laughed.  "In  future  I  shall 
have  new  duties  to  fulfil.  Help  me  to  bear  my  responsi- 
bilities." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  his  mouth  still  trembling. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,"  she  said  good-humoredly. 
"It  will  be  a  little  Tallien,  sure  enough.  Only  I  hope  he 
won't  have  your  nose.  Pawvre  ami,  it  is  an  ugly  one." 

"Terezia !     Terezia !" 

"Get  up,"  she  counselled,  giving  him  a  little  poke.  "I 
want  to  talk  to  you  seriously." 

"You  might  have  kissed  me,"  he  sobbed.  "If  you  had 
kissed  me  I  would  have  understood  .  .  .  We  are  strangers 
to  each  other." 

She  kept  her  temper  admirably. 

"What  babies  men  are!"  she  said  gaily.  She  held  up 
her  face.  "I  am  waiting." 

He  bowed  stiffly.     "Not  now.     I  am  not  yet  a  beggar." 

He  flung  himself  down  on  a  sofa  by  the  window. 

A  shaft  of  sunshine  touched  his  face.  Involuntarily 
Terezia  noticed  how  pimpled  and  blotchy  his  skin  looked. 
He  was  not  properly  shaved  either.  His  eyes  had  a  furtive, 
frightened  look  and  his  big,  loose  lips  were  suspiciously  red. 

She  passed  her  fingers  over  her  own  mouth.  Did  he 
use  some  pigment?  Or  was  it  only  fever?  No  wonder 


40  LOVE 

the  poor  man  did  not  sleep  well  at  nights.  And  his  bed- 
room was  so  luxurious! 

She  turned  round,  pushed  her  chair  forward,  and  looked 
attentively  at  her  husband. 

"Seriously,  what  do  you  know?  Last  night  I  was  too 
tired  to  listen.  Politics  never  interest  a  woman  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning — -particularly  if  she  has  been  danc- 
ing all  night.  Barras  does  things  well." 

He  stared  out  of  the  window. 

"There  is  a  strong  faction  in  favor  of  the  royalists. 
I  could  lay  my  hands  on  a  hundred  sound  and  capable 
men,  ready  to  sacrifice " 

"Is  Barras  amongst  them?"  she  interrupted. 

"No." 

"Then  keep  quiet." 

"I  can't.     I  have  practically  given  my  word — 

"My  poor  innocent!  Do  you  think  anyone  believes  in 
your  word?" 

He  let  the  insult  pass  without  comment. 

"I  have  a  better  plan  than  that.  I  will  entertain  the 
crowd." 

"How?" 

"How!"  she  mimicked  his  tone.  "By  giving  parties, 
dances,  dinners,  kisses — where  necessary.  I  am  not  a  fool. 
I  happen  also  to  be  irresistible." 

He  sat  upright,  fascinated  by  her  audacity. 

"And  how  the  devil " 

"Quite  easy.  If  you  play  your  cards  well,  by  June  you 
will  be  Dictator  in  France.  No  bloodshed,  of  course.  That 
is  happily  out  of  date.  The  faculty  of  medicine  have  shown 
us  that  it  is  quite  possible  to  heal  without  shedding  blood. 
Why  not  follow  their  good  example?" 

"Why  not?"  He  knotted  his  fingers  together.  "The 
easiest  matter  in  the  world.  You  are  very  clever,  madam." 
— His  tone  was  biting. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Josephine  this  afternoon.  I  have 
ordered  the  carriage  for  two  o'clock.  Come  with  me." 


LOVE  41 

"Do  you  think  I  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  dance 
attendance  on  Barras'  mistress?" 

"Do  exactly  as  you  please.  We  have  nothing  more 
important  to  discuss  than  our  contribution  to  the  Bour- 
rienne  dinner.  It  is  a  good  plan  to  club  together.  As 
it  is,  meals  are  far  too  sketchy  in  Paris.'* 

"Two  and  two  together,"  he  said,  evidently  engrossed 
by  some  idea. 

"Excellent,"  she  assented.  "How  we  laughed  the  other 
night  at  the  Simons' !  We  were  twenty  people,  and  every- 
one had  brought  a  dish  of  herrings.  When  I  entertain  it 
is  different." 

"Be  careful,  Terezia." 

"No,  no,  little  man,  I  am  going  to  be  very  indiscreet! 
The  papers  will  mention  our  splendid  dinners  and  people 
will  remember  them  and — return."  She  rose  as  she  spoke 
and  picked  up  the  newspaper  lying  on  the  floor. 

"Listen !"  she  cried  presently.  "  *  .  .  .  Not  only  is 
Madame  Tallien  noted  for  her  beauty,  her  charm,  her 
intelligence,  but  also  for  her  prodigal  charity.  As  a 
true  Sister  of  Mercy,  she  does  not  spare  herself  on  behalf 
of  the  poor  .  .  .*  Tallien,  I  insist  on  having  five  louis 
d'or  at  once!" 

"The  pay  of  an  army  corps.    I'm  not  made  of  money." 

"You  are  worth  your  weight  in  gold!  Besides,  your 
reputation  is  at  stake.  I  tell  you,  at  the  theatre  last 

night "  She  looked  out  of  the  window.  "Oh,"  she 

cried,  "if  that  is  not  too  bad!  I  refuse  to  see  him." 

A  tall  young  man,  muffled  up  to  his  throat  in  an 
immense  great-coat,  was  standing  on  the  door-step,  sav- 
agely kicking  the  snow  off  his  boots. 

Presently  he  rang  the  bell. 

After  an  interval  a  footman  brought  in  a  card  and  a 
letter,  "Citoyen  Guery  would  be  much  obliged  if  the  citoy- 
enne  could  spare  him  a  few  moments " 

Terezia  waved  her  hand.  "I  am  not  at  home,"  she 
said,  snatching  the  letter  and  tearing  it  open.  "Remember 


42  LOVE 

in  future,  whenever  Citoyen  Guery  calls,  I  am  never  at 
home." 

"Yes,  citoyenne" 

"Stay!     Did  he  say  anything  about  his  journey?" 

"Citoyen  Guery  has  his  instructions  and  he  is  leaving 
Paris  this  morning  for  Bordeaux." 

Terezia  did  not  like  Pierre.  He  was  Tallien's  confiden- 
tial servant.  He  had  been  with  him  all  through  the 
Terror.  It  was  he  who  had  helped  his  master  with  his 
dressing  on  the  memorable  occasion  of  Robespierre's  down- 
fall. The  man  had  a  marvellous  memory. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Terezia.     "No  answer." 

Pierre  gently  shut  the  door  behind  him.  In  the  hall  he 
adjusted  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

"It  is  an  unpardonable  mistake,"  he  pondered,  "for  a 
man  to  marry  his  mistress.  They  always  either  grow 
overbearing  or  religious." 

To  the  eager  visitor,  waiting  on  the  doorstep,  he  deliv- 
ered his  message: 

"Citoyenne  Tallien  is  not  at  home." 

Young  Guery  looked  up  at  the  charmingly  curtained 
windows.  Then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  almost  ran  down 
the  broad  avenue. 

"He  is  well  out  of  it,"  mused  the  discreet  Pierre  as  he 
shut  the  door  and  put  up  the  safety-chain. 


CHAPTER  V 

TT  was  freezing  cold  this  January,  1795. 

The  Parisians  suffered  heavily — for  the  better  part 
were  fireless  and  hungry.  The  Revolution  had  left  want 
behind  her  and  disorder  and  great  astonishment;  poor 
and  rich  alike  in  this  respect.  The  prices  asked  and  paid 
were  exorbitant.  People  talked  of  the  good  old  days  of 
the  Terror  when  living  was  cheap  and  comradeship  easy, 
and  made  their  comparisons.  It  is  always  thus.  A  social 
or  a  moral  upheaval  always  leaves  us  the  poorer. 

The  winds  swept  over  Paris — biting  northeast  gales. 
The  Seine  froze  solidly.  At  the  street  corners  roast  chest- 
nuts tempted  the  rich.  There  was  quite  a  roaring  trade 
done  in  them  at  anything  you  liked  to  ask,  or  take.  There 
were  no  maximum  prices  in  those  days  to  check  the 
profiteer.  No  police  to  speak  of. 

Horses,  rough-shod,  clattered  in  all  directions  down 
the  ice-bound  streets  to  the  peril  of  unwary  pedestrians. 
Carriages  were  beginning  to  put  in  a  tardy  appearance, 
of  a  very  plain  description.  Still,  it  was  a  beginning. 
Much  as  a  snowdrop  heralds  spring.  The  sight  of  some 
pale-faced  lady,  seated  erect  in  her  family  chariot,  prom- 
ised better  things.  There  was  even  a  question  of  opening 
the  churches  for  religious  purposes.  However,  the 
Assembly  put  down  the  proposition  as  being  too  radical. 
"Let  things  slide,"  said  Tallien,  beaming.  One  of  his 
happy  days,  when  not  only  Madame  Tallien  had  shaken 
hands  with  him,  but  also  Citizens  Barras,  Cambaceres, 
Sieyes — all  influential  people.  Most  days  his  friends  cut 
him  dead.  A  very  mournful  state  of  affairs. 

"Let  things  slide,"  he  repeated. 

The  news-sheets — odd  to  say — made  poor  sales.     The 

43 


44  LOVE 

public  were  indifferent  to  the  press.  It  took  a  great 
interest  in  their  dinners,  but  the  affairs  of  the  country 
left  them  yawning.  "It  is  all  the  same  to  us,"  they  said. 
"Things  could  not  be  worse." 

Then  Tallien  made  another  great  speech.  "Friends  and 
comrades,"  he  shouted,  "they  might  be  better!  I  have 
a  scheme " 

"Damn  him!"  said  Barras  languidly.  Tallien's  tirades 
in  the  Assembly  bored  him  completely.  M.  Barras'  atti- 
tude was  typical  of  the  times.  If  you  can  imagine  a  city 
of  sleep-walkers,  see  Paris,  or  rather  the  Parisians, 
shuffling  along  without  a  purpose.  They  were  too  tired 
to  do  anything  else.  Too  tired  of  excitement  and  specu- 
lation to  ask  a  single  question.  If  you  had  offered  them 
a  peep  into  the  future,  no  one  would  have  taken  it.  "Let 
things  slide." 

Walking  at  a  very  quick  pace,  towards  Cour  la  Reine, 
a  young  officer  passed  through  the  phlegmatic  crowd. 

"Roast  chestnuts!     Three  for  fourpence!" 

He  scowled  at  the  buxom  saleswoman  who  would  thrust 
herself  on  his  attention. 

Her  face  was  the  color  of  beetroot.  Her  eyes  smiled 
kindly.  Trade  was  fairly  prosperous.  Her  little  bag  of 
coppers  well  worth  five  hundred  francs  in  assignats;  not 
that  she  would  have  exchanged  her  poor  handful  of  sous 
for  a  flimsy  note — not  even  for  a  big  blue.  A  big  blue  bill 
bore  the  legend  of  one  thousand  silver  pieces.  .  .  .  Bah! 
why  not  ten  thousand? 

The  wind  tore  round  the  corner,  from  the  Place  de  la 
Revolution.  A  cab-driver,  muffled  in  an  antediluvian  cape, 
swore  loudly  as  he  beat  his  arms  on  his  chest.  His  frost- 
bitten hand,  swollen  and  red,  caught  at  a  tarnished  metal 
button.  It  burnt  like  fire.  .  .  . 

"Chestnuts!     Roast  chestnuts — four  for  fourpence!" 

The  young  officer  looked  back. 

"My  son,"  she  said,  "you  want  them  more  than  I  do. 
Why,  you  look  as  hungry  as  a  starved  cat.  Good  God, 
what  eyes!" 


LOVE  45 

The  young  officer  smiled.  He  searched  his  pockets  and 
brought  out  a  precious  sou. 

She  took  it  gingerly  and  tested  it  with  her  teeth. 

"Bon.     Of  what  regiment?" 

"The  23rd  Artillery.     General." 

She  gaped.     "What  imagination!" 

"Great,"  he  answered. 

"He!  Robert,  Id "  She  waved  her  hand  to  her 

friend  the  cab-driver.  "Look  at  him.  He  is  a  general 
—he  is.  This  little  hop-o'-my-thumb.  He  has  fought  in 
battles — he  has.  He  has  commanded  a  whole  army-corps." 
She  was  richly  tickled  at  her  fancy. 

The  officer  took  the  joke  in  very  good  part. 

"True,  mother;  if  all  generals  were  as  hungry  as  I  am, 
they  would  either  eat  each  other  or  the  world." 

She  shook  her  head  compassionately.  He  was  so  thin, 
so  young  and  so  obviously  in  poor  circumstances.  She 
knew  nothing  of  epaulets,  but  she  was  good  at  spotting 
stains  and  the  lack  of  darns. 

His  ugly  boots  had  never  feasted  on  polish,  and  were 
as  cracked  as  the  mouth  of  a  crater.  Quite  evidently  he 
had  had  to  shift  for  himself  in  this  freezing  wilderness 
of  new  Paris. 

The  old  days  were  over  (God  be  praised!).  The  new 
days  were  as  yet  too  unknown  to  bear  comment. 

People  were  returning  to  Paris.  Here  and  there  shops 
were  unshuttered.  Musicians,  with  tuneless  instruments, 
strutted  the  streets  and  played  their  ear-piercing  melodies. 
Theatre-folk — so  she  had  heard — were  again  employed  at 
their  ungodly  calling.  At  the  Theatre  Odeon  they  were 
acting  Moliere  to  aristocratic  audiences.  The  pretty 
ladies  dared  once  again  to  peep  out  of  their  windows ;  poor 
dears — they  who  had  survived  had  battled  through  hard 
times.  .  .  .  The  chestnut-seller  was  not  opposed  to  justice, 
but  she  dearly  loved  the  sight  of  an  elegant  lady. 

Just  at  that  moment  she  spied  a  well-known  carriage. 

"Look,"  she  said  to  her  customer.     "She  is  well  worth 


46  LOVE 

a  glance.  The  loveliest  woman  in  France!  Vive  notre 
Dame  de  Thermidor!" 

Strange  to  say,  this  miserable  sub-lieutenant  disdained 
to  admire  the  redoubtable  Madame  Tallien,  driving  past 
in  all  her  glory,  wrapped  up  to  her  enchanting  chin  in 
black  fox  skins;  her  furred  bonnet  ornamented  with  a 
cherry  satin  rosette,  her  beautiful  face  looking  like  a 
flushed  pearl. 

"I  am  in  a  hurry,"  he  said  shortly.  "Give  me  my 
dinner." 

She  rocked  with  laughter. 

"Hoighty-toighty !"  she  screamed.  "Is  he  jealous? 
Poor  little  puss  in  boots !" 

He  took  her  pleasantry  in  good  part,  and  the  proffered 
bag  of  chestnuts.  She  had  given  him  more  than  her  con- 
science afforded.  Bah !  you  did  not  every  day  come  across 
a  pair  of  eyes  of  such  exceptional  fascination. 

He  saluted  and  thanked  her,  and  was  off  like  an  arrow 
from  the  bow. 

She  considered  half  a  second.  Then  she  clutched  at 
her  bosom  and  drew  out  a  bundle  of  notes.  Quickly  she 
selected  a  dozen  or  so. 

"Citoyen,  your  change!"  she  yelled.  Half  Paris  could 
have  heard  her. 

"Keep  it,"  called  the  lordly  sub-lieutenant,  continuing 
his  way. 

The  cab-driver,  pulling  his  dejected  horse  after  him, 
drew  near  the  chestnut  brazier. 

"Thou  idiot,"  he  said  in  the  lady's  ear,  "he  was  a  gen- 
eral. His  name  is  Bonaparte,  and  he  distinguished  him- 
self at  Toulon,  and  nearly  lost  his  head  when  Robespierre 
fell."  (He  scratched  his  own.)  "Don't  care  a  button 
about  politics  and  don't  understand  them.  Anyhow  he's 
out  of  prison  now  and  on  the  look-out  for  a  job." 

A  sudden  flash  of  sunlight  lit  up  the  wintry  sky. 

Straining  her  eyes,  the  chestnut-seller  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  recent  customer,  tearing  along  at  express  speed. 


LOVE  47 

Almost   instinctively  people  made  way   for  him.      They 
looked  back  at  him  in  wonder. 

There  was  no  hurry  in  Paris,  New  Year,  1795. 

General  Bonaparte  wasn't  in  luck's  way  that  day. 

Hardly  had  he  reached  his  miserable  attic,  tired  and 
despondent  after  another  futile  morning,  spent  in  tramp- 
ing from  one  influential  man's  ante-room  to  another 
(always  with  the  same  half-ironic,  half-patronizing  dis- 
missal and  a  vague  promise  that  his  petition  would  be 
"looked  into"  at  some  future  date),  before  his  privacy 
was  disturbed  by  his  laundress. 

She  came  in  unannounced  and  stood  upright  by  the 
door  and  stared  at  her  patron  with  no  mild  eye.  She 
meant  business.  It  seemed  that  the  general  owed  her  a 
bill  as  long  as  her  arm. 

At  first  he  hardly  seemed  to  grasp  what  she  said.  "What 
is  it?"  he  asked. 

In  the  fading  light  of  the  day  she  could  hardly  discern 
his  features.  He  was  lying  on  his  bed,  covered  by  his 
military  coat.  The  thermometer  at  zero  in  that  fireless 
room.  She  tried  to  pierce  the  secret  of  the  place.  There 
was  no  secret,  only  blatant,  cruel  poverty. 

She  had  mounted  those  interminable  stone  stairs — he 
lodged  in  an  ancient  house  in  the  neighborhood  of  Notre 
Dame — fully  determined,  at  the  expense  of  a  pair  of 
strong,  though  exhausted,  lungs,  to  give  him  a  piece  of 
her  mind.  In  all  the  quartier  she  was  the  loudest-tongued 
female.  She  had  a  vocabulary  to  match  her  voice ;  besides 
a  good,  strong  temper,  and,  in  this  case,  some  excuse  for  it. 

However,  here  she  stood,  curiously  at  a  loss  for  an 
answer. 

"Times  are  bad,"  she  declared,  almost  humbly.  "I  must 
have  ten  francs  on  account." 

He  sat  up  on  the  bed,  and  kicked  off  his  great-coat. 
He  had  removed  his  boots.  She  noticed  that  his  stockings 
were  in  holes. 

"Five,"  she  said,  looking  at  his  heel. 


48  LOVE 

"Add  twenty  to  the  bill.  Surely  you  can't  doubt  my 
word  ?  When  I  am  a  rich  man,  you'll  be  a  proud  woman." 

"I'm  a  hungry  one  now,"  she  said. 

"I  can  sympathize  with  you." 

He  rose,  searched  his  pockets,  and  offered  her  two  chest- 
nuts. In  his  stockinged  feet  he  slipped  across  the  floor 
(uncarpeted)  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Here  and  there  oil  lamps  gleamed  in  the  street  below. 
For  the  most  part  he  had  an  uninterrupted  view  of  con- 
gested roofs  and  chimney-pots.  From  a  neighboring 
house  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke — a  vertical  column  in  the 
still,  frosty  air — spoke  of  warmth  and  food.  A  fresh 
fall  of  snow  had  given  a  miraculously  clean  look  to  the  city. 

"Three  francs  on  account,"  she  repeated,  greedily  biting 
her  chestnuts  and  squaring  her  elbows. 

He  sighed ;  flung  himself  down  on  a  cane  chair,  standing 
by  the  window,  in  front  of  a  deal  table,  covered  with  maps 
and  books. 

"In  ten  years,  my  good  woman,  you  will  tremble  at 
the  mere  thought  of  your  present  impertinence." 

"Oh,  lord!"  she  said,  flinging  the  skins  on  the  floor,  "I 
have  no  patience  with  visionary  heroes." 

"As  to  that " 

He  looked  her  straight  in  the  face,  and  smiled. 

From  under  her  shawl  she  brought  out  a  parcel  and, 
stepping  gently,  meekly  placed  it  on  his  camp  bedstead. 
She  straightened  the  coverlet  and  stood  thinking  a  moment. 

"M.  le  general,"  she  said,  "at  Toulon  you  saved  my 
Loulou's  life  and  incidentally  the  honor  of  France.  I 
don't  care  a  scrap  about  France — say  what  you  will,  there 
you  saved  a  tattered  rag.  But  Loulou  is  my  good  husband, 
except  when  he  drinks — and  when  I  do  the  best  I  can  for 
your  inexpressible  linen,  I  always  remember  the  service 
you  did  me.  Good  evening,  M.  le  general." 

She  made  for  the  door  in  subdued  silence,  as  it  were, 
resigned  to  a  fate  stronger  than  herself. 

He  rose  impulsively,  his  thin  hand  resting  on  the  table. 

"Madam,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  vibrating  with  emo- 


LOVE  49 

tion,  "it  is  not  always  sufficient,  especially  under  trying 

circumstances,  to  believe  in  oneself.  ...  I  tell  you " 

(he  clenched  his  fist  until  the  knuckles  shone  blue  in  the 
fading  light)  "it  is  hell  to  tramp  the  streets  of  Paris, 
dreaming,  thinking,  knowing!  Why,  woman,  I  am 
crammed  with  knowledge,  and  opportunity  evades  me  at 
every  turn.  In  this  hurly-burly  when  shall  I  have  my 
chance  ?" 

Tears  welled  in  his  eyes.  His  fine,  eager  face  quivered 
as  if  from  a  physical  blow. 

"It  is  more  than  I  can  bear,"  he  said  dully,  the  flame 
dying  from  his  eyes,  leaving  to  view  a  pinched,  half-starved 
physiognomy. 

Woman  of  the  people  as  she  was,  Loulou's  wife,  she  was 
yet  impressed  by  her  poor  customer's  earnestness.  He 
believed  in  himself — that  he  did!  And,  par  exemple,  why 
should  not  she  credit  him  with  unforeseen  good  luck? 
Things  happened.  Strange  things.  La-la! 

She  shrugged  her  broad  shoulders  and  flashed  an  honest 
smile  at  him.  She  admired  personal  courage. 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?"  she  asked  indignantly. 
"Would  I  trust  you  for  two  hundred  francs — paid  in 
coin — if  I  did  not  believe  in  your  ultimate  good  fortune? 
Am  I  a  wicked  woman?"  {crescendo)  "Am  I  a  fool?  Would 
I  defraud  my  family  at  the  expense  of  an  empty  sentiment 


The  last  word  she  hurled  at  him  with  the  full  force  of 
her  outraged  dignity.  It  was  good  to  speak  one's  mind! 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "To  hear  such  an  opinion  is 
worth  an  actual  slice  of  mutton.  Will  you  permit  me  to 
look  at  my  account?" 

"Certainly,  sir." 

Briskly  she  handed  him  a  blue  roll. 

"Thank  you."  He  waved  his  hand.  "Be  so  good  as 
to  be  seated." 

She  stood  up  against  the  wall. 

"By  the  light  of  future  events  it  would  be  a  liberty," 
she  said. 


50  LOVE 

He  unrolled  the  bill  and  docketed  the  iten:s  with  a  lead 
pencil.  Once  he  glanced  towards  the  bed. 

"You  have  brought  me  back  my  best  shirt?"  he  asked. 
"I  have  but  three  in  the  world,  as  you  know,  and  to-morrow 
night  I  dine  at  the  BourriennesV 

"It  is  there,"  she  said;  "washed,  ironed,  mended." 

"You  are  a  good  woman,"  he  said,  "but  you  have  over- 
charged me  in  two  places.  You  have  also  accounted  for 
garments  which  I  have  never  possessed.  I  will  take  the 
liberty  of  correcting  these  mistakes " 

There  is  a  limit  to  human  endurance.  "Consider- 
ing—  >5  she  began. 

"Wait  a  moment,  if  you  please.  'Bill'  (he  wrote)  'to  be 
paid  five  years  hence,  from  date  above,  at  compound 
interest,  plus  one  thousand  francs  in  gold.  Signed, 
Napoleon  Bonaparte.'  Does  that  satisfy  you,  madame?" 
He  looked  up  at  her  gravely. 

She  wandered  heavily  to  the  table  and  took  up  the 
document. 

"It  will  have  to,"  she  said. 

Then  she  shook  her  head.  "I'll  wager  my  money  that 
your  shirts  won't  last  five  years." 

He  laughed  joyously. 

"T'ja!"  he  said.  "I'll  have  a  dozen  new  ones  before  the 
year  is  out.  And  two  pairs  of  boots  and  a  grand  new 
uniform,  and  a  nice  warm  cloak  and  a  pocketful  of  money." 

She  looked  at  him  from  her  high  estate  as  a  sensible 
woman. 

"Good-night,  my  brave  child,"  she  said,  and  tramped 
down  the  bare  staircase,  leaving  the  general  engrossed  in 
his  happy  thoughts. 

The  night  came  on  windy  and  cold.  By  dawn  Paris 
glittered  under  a  fall  of  driven  snow.  A  great  light  hung 
in  the  eastern  sky — pale,  luminous,  clear.  And  the  city 
looked  as  if  washed  from  all  her  sins. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THEY  were  playing  billiards  at  the  Bourriennes',  when 
General  Bonaparte  arrived,  rather  breathless  and 
very  late.  He  could  distinctly  hear  the  click  of  the  ivory 
balls  from  an  adjoining  saloon. 

From  early  morning  until  half-an-hour  ago,  he  had  sat 
at  his  writing-table,  by  the  draughty  window,  engrossed 
in  his  work,  entirely  forgetful  of  everything  else,  his 
hunger,  the  numb  condition  of  his  hands  and  feet — even 
of  his  dinner-party,  until  the  lengthening  shadows  inter- 
fered with  his  reading.  When  he  realized  the  hour  he 
made  the  best  of  time.  It  vexed  him  to  be  late  for  an 
appointment. 

"Bon  soir,  M.  le  general." 

"How  are  you,  Peter?     Am  I  very  late?" 

Bourrienne's  confidential  servant — an  old  soldier — shook 
his  head.  "No,  monsieur.  Madame  la  Vicomtesse  de  Beau- 
harnais  has  not  arrived.  She  is  always  the  last." 

"My  luck  this  time,"  said  Bonaparte,  flinging  his  cloak 
into  the  arms  of  a  footman  and  stamping  his  wet  boots 
on  the  door-mat.  "It  is  snowing  hard  again." 

"Shut  the  door,"  said  Peter  to  the  footman.  "Why  do 
you  always  leave  it  open?  Seasonable  weather,  citizen." 

Bonaparte  smoothed  his  long-cut  ragged  hair,  and, 
taking  out  of  his  pocket  a  clean  linen  handkerchief,  he  care- 
fully wiped  his  face.  "I'll  cool  down,"  he  said,  glancing 
round  the  little  hall  which,  in  comparison  with  the  freez- 
ing temperature  outside,  felt  hot  as  a  vapor  bath. 

His  eyes  fell  on  a  square  table — a  solid  piece  of  work- 
manship from  ancient  times,  standing  to  the  left  of  the 
winding  staircase  leading  to  a  floor  above.  (The  Bour- 

51 


52  LOVE 

riennes  inhabited  a  commodious  old  house.)  He  clapped 
his  hands  to  his  pockets  in  dismay.  The  table  was  prac- 
tically covered  with  every  variety  of  parcel — for  the  most 
part  of  modest  dimensions.  He  stood  there,  straight  and 
thin  as  a  reed,  and  his  sensitive  mouth  quivered.  "I  have 
brought  nothing,"  he  said  simply.  "I  had  nothing  to 
bring,  but  a  hungry  man's  excellent  appetite."  (He  had 
eaten  nothing  all  day.) 

From  the  adjoining  saloon,  through  the  murmur  of 
general  conversation,  came  the  sound  of  a  woman's  light 
laughter.  It  rang  like  a  bell,  clear  and  joyous,  evidently 
dominating  the  situation.  M.  Bourrienne's  guests  were 
amusing  themselves.  Bonaparte  felt  himself  an  interloper. 
What  had  he  to  do  with  a  pack  of  pleasure-seekers?  He 
drew  his  brows  together — moody,  silent,  miserable. 

Peter  beckoned  to  the  footman.  "You  are  wanted  in 
the  dining-room,"  he  said.  "Here,  take  these  parcels. 
Dish  them  and  place  them  on  the  table.  Scraps!"  he 
muttered  beneath  his  breath.  "Be  careful,  now.  Your 
thumbs  won't  improve  Madame  de  St.  Innocent's  jelly, 
even  though  it  is  a  thimbleful." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  the  young  man,  as  he  vanished 
through  a  small  door  in  the  panelling. 

"And  that  is  little  enough,"  said  Peter,  adjusting  the 
wick  of  a  smoking  lamp  and  staring  vindictively  at  a 
voluminous  plum-colored  cloth  coat,  heavily  braided  in 
silver,  with  an  immense  roll-collar  of  orange  velvet.  It 
hung  on  the  same  peg  as  a  charming  wrap,  mounted  and 
lined  with  black  fox-skins  and  further  ornamented  with 
knots  of  cherry  satin  ribbons.  Beneath  these  two  garments 
stood  a  tiny  pair  of  ladies'  over-boots — laced  with  gold 
cord — and  a  mammoth  pair  of  galoshes.  They  formed 
an  amusing  study  in  contrasts. 

The  little  hall — square  and  low-pitched,  with  a  massive 
oak  central  beam,  from  which  swung  two  oil  lamps — was 
overcrowded  with  a  varied  collection  of  outdoor  apparel. 
On  the  polished  oak  floor,  just  as  they  had  been  kicked 
off,  lay  the  guests'  overshoes,  still  wet  with  snow-slush; 


LOVE  53 

indeed,  here  and  there  shining  pools  of  water  had  collected 
on  the  uneven  surface  of  the  dented  boards.  So  few  of 
the  guests  could  afford  driving. 

"M.  le  general  is  more  than  welcome  to  everything  the 
house  affords,"  said  Peter  respectfully.  "There  are  others 
who  can  pay  double,  treble,  a  hundredfold !"  He  snapped 
his  fingers  with  a  disdainful  gesture. 

Bonaparte  continued  his  toilet.  He  was  busy  with  a 
clumsy-looking  steel  file,  cleaning  his  nails.  "My  friend," 
he  said,  "where  does  dirt  come  from?" 

The  old  soldier  deliberately  kicked  one  of  the  monstrous 
galoshes.  "They  can  afford  to  buy  up  Paris,"  he  said. 
"They  can  eat  ortolans  and  oysters  out  of  season,  and 
raisin  porridge  when  winter  comes  along  as  a  snarling 
wolf." 

"T'jaT  returned  Bonaparte,  "leaving  raisin  porridge 
aside,  we  are  well  out  of  his  shoes." 

"Maybe,  sir.  But  there  is  a  mighty  consolation  in 
food."  Peter  nodded  his  head  towards  the  table.  "How- 
ever, to-day,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  most  of  'em  have  brought 
bread,  and  stale  bread  at  that.  We  had  a  grand  feast 
last  week.  Why  were  you  not  here,  M.  le  general?" 

"I  was  not  invited." 

"Madame  de  Beauharnais  sent  a  whole  bucketful  of  soup 
— such  soup — meaty,  strong,  with  forcemeat-balls,  toma- 
toes and  peas !  I  filled  the  four  soup-tureens  belonging  to 
our  small  dinner-service — the  East  India  one.  It  was 
heated  to  a  turn — it  came  steaming  hot  to  table.  Only 
twenty  covers,  and  each  person  had  a  generous  plateful. 
There  was  amply  sufficient  over  for  us.  Even  servants 
have  stomachs,  M.  le  general — empty  stomachs.  Then  I 
heard  my  master's  genial  voice:  'Who  will  take  a  second 
helping?'  Eighteen  responded." 

"Who  was  the  abstemious  one?"  laughed  Bonaparte. 

"Sir,"  said  Peter  solemnly,  "there  wasn't  sufficient  for 
the  last  guest.  He  had  to  go  without." 

Bonaparte  smoothed  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  a  gleam  of 
fun  in  his  eyes.  He  bent  over  the  table  until  his  nose 


54  LOVE 

almost  touched  a  parcel.  "It  is  either  wild  duck  or 
partridge,"  he  said. 

Peter  discreetly  tore  open  a  corner  of  it  and  disclosed 
a  game-pie. 

"M.  Barras,"  he  said,  "whenever  M.  Barras  dines  here, 
or  elsewhere,  for  the  matter  of  that,  he  always  brings  six 
handsome  meat-pies.  He  is  generosity  itself.  Not  only 
meat,  m'sieu' — meat  at  eighty  francs  a  pound — but  fre- 
quently he  will  send  us,  with  his  compliments,  wine — wine 
at  the  Lord  knows  what  figure !  Without  doubt  M.  Barras 
is  the  most  popular  guest  of  the  day  in  Paris." 

The  general,  with  extreme  difficulty,  was  manoeuvring 
his  hands  into  a  pair  of  old,  white  kid  gloves.  He  worked 
his  fingers  automatically.  "Confound  it !"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  right  hand.  "The  glove  has  split." 

"Never  mind,"  consoled  the  old  servant.  "Hands  were 
made  before  gloves,  and  an  honest  man  is  worth  ten  fops 
any  day.  Besides,  nothing  will  make  M.  le  general  elegant. 

Bonaparte  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  a  slight, 
virile,  well-knit  figure.  "Don't  be  too  sure,"  he  said 
gravely.  "Appearances  are  often  deceptive." 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  statement,  that  clear,  metallic 
laugh,  from  the  next  room,  rang  out  a  trifle  shriller  than 
before,  followed  by  a  chorus  of  approving  male  voices. 

"Some  woman  playing  to  the  gallery." 

"Yes,  M.  le  general.  She  is  never  contented  until  the 
last  man  falls." 

"I'll  have  to  avoid  her!" 

"Why  not  capitulate  at  once?"  said  Peter,  allowing  him- 
self this  little  pleasantry. 

"Never !  while  I  have  an  ounce  of  shot  left  in  my  barrel," 
said  Bonaparte,  taking  a  step  forward.  "I  suppose  I 
ought  to  be  going  in?" 

"Just  as  you  please,  sir.  There  is  no  hurry.  The 
lady " 

"On  second  thoughts,  I'll  wait  here  for  the  unknown. 
I  have  never  met  Madame  de  Beauharnais."  He  seated 
himself  in  the  big  hall  chair,  smiling  gaily.  "Heigh,  Peter ! 


LOVE  55 

after  all,  there  is  no  woman's  laugh  to  (  ampare  with  a  good 
round  of  musketry,  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  any  woman's 
eye  equal  to  the  enemy's  fire,  for  putting  the  right  man 
on  his  true  mettle."  He  sat  there  silent  for  a  minute,  for 
all  the  world  as  if  defrauded  of  some  precious  privilege. 

"Peter!" 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"I  am  going  to  leave  women  out  of  my  life." 

"Love  plays  a  winning  game  with  the  best  of  us,"  said 
Peter  with  a  prodigious  sigh. 

"My  brother  Joseph,  who,  between  ourselves,  is  a  bit  of 
a  fool,  made  a  brilliant  marriage.  I  know  all  that.  Money, 
youth,  love — yet  I  don't  envy  him.  I  am  glad  for  my 
mother's  sake  that  he  can  provide  for  her.  They,  my 
people,  have  had  an  awful  struggle  to  make  the  two  ends 
meet.  One  day  I  will  relieve  Joseph  of  his  responsibilities. 
After  all,  Mademoiselle  Clerie  is  not  our  equal  in  birth. 
Her  father  is  a  rich  grocer  in  Marseilles." 

"It  sounds  comfortable,"  said  Peter,  seeing  in  his  imag- 
ination a  vast  selection  of  smoked  hams,  bags  of  sugar  and 
rice,  and  flagons  of  purest  oil. 

"Mademoiselle  Desiree — his  sister-in-law — is  a  charming 
young  lady.  But  neither  of  the  sisters  are  to  be  compared 
with  mine.  Pauline  is  a  beauty  and  Caroline  is  as  lively 
as  a  kitten.  They  deserve  good  fortune." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  have  a  pair  of  strong  hands.  And  more  than  that, 
brains  to  fit  out  a  regiment,  and  imagination  to  go  round 
a  well-populated  town.  .  .  .  Why,  I  am  the  wealthiest 
man  in  Paris !  What  do  I  care  about  Tallien  and  his  ill- 
gotten  gold  and  his  well-furnished  table  and  his  downy  bed 
—hard  enough,  I  swear,  when  he  lies  awake — thinking — 
thinking?  His  future  is  pretty  sure,  and  his  past  written 
in  ink.  We  cannot  evade  our  own  actions,  but  we  can 
guard  against  possible  alarms."  He  spoke  extremely  fast 
—hardly  addressing  his  words  to  Peter,  who,  anyhow, 
understood  but  vaguely  their  purport. 

"You  are  too  much  alone,  general." 


56  LOVE 

"Alone!  I  am  never  alone.  I  have  unlimited  resources 
and  unlimited  friends.  A  bare  room  is  never  empty.  Are 
you  a  reader,  Peter?'* 

"At  times,  sir." 

"To-night,  clear  off  these  pegs,  usher  out  the  guests, 
turn  down  the  lights,  take  this  chair  and  let  all  the  heroes 
and  all  the  villains  in  your  favorite  romances  march  in.  I 
tell  you,  your  blood  will  beat  in  your  veins.  The  villains 
you  can  cheerfully  hang  on  the  pegs — fancy  them  there 
all  in  a  row.  The  heroes  you  will  stand  round  the  hos- 
pitable board,  each  with  a  loaf  in  his  hand — a  flagon  of 
wine  by  his  side.  You  will  be  pleased  and  delighted.  And 
you  will  hear  wonders.  All  the  little  details  which,  for 
want  of  space,  the  best  writer  has  to  leave  out  of  his  books. 
You  have  only  got  to  sit  there  and  listen  until  the  cock 
crows,  or  the  sun  looks  in  at  the  window,  crying,  'Wake 
up,  old  Peter;  no  'time  for  dreaming.  Set  the  breakfast 
and  see  that  your  master's  boots  are  cleaned.'  .  .  .  That 
is  the  worst  of  it.  A  hermit  is  the  only  man  who  is  really 
to  be  envied.  The  wind  and  sun  and  birds  never  really 
interfere  with  his  proud  leisure.  He  can  eat  his  nuts  in 
peace  and  let  his  beard  grow ." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Peter  very  respectfully,  observing  the 
extraordinary  brilliancy  of  the  general's  eyes  and  feeling 
anxious  about  his  health. 

A  loud  knock  on  the  door  disturbed  his  reflection. 
"There  we  have  her  at  last!"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  up 
at  the  grandfather  clock  and  opening  the  hall-door  with 
a  flourish. 

The  general  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  light  died  out  of 
his  eyes.  He  looked  nervous  and  tired. 

On  the  doorstep,  powdered  with  snow,  stood  a  small 
errand-boy,  holding  in  one  hand  a  big  basket  and  in  the 
other  a  card.  "Madame  de  Beauharnais'  compliments. 
She  can't  come,"  he  said,  thrusting  the  card  into  the  old 
retainer's  hand  and  placing  the  basket  on  the  floor.  Then 
he  ran.  At  a  safe  distance  he  turned  and  made  a  face  at 
Peter,  who  hadn't  clearly  grasped  the  situation,  or  why 


LOVE  57 

he  had  let  that  young  rascal  escape  without  at  least  one 
sounding  rap  on  his  weather-beaten  ear. 

The  wind  blew  into  the  stuffy  hall.  The  oil  lamps  began 
smoking,  and  the  general  coughed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

Peter  lifted  the  basket  on  to  the  table,  and  undid  the 
wrappings.  After  a  moment's  silence  he  said,  "I  have 
always  respected  Madame  de  Beauharnais." 

Both  the  men  stared  in  admiration  at  a  big  and  ornate 
cake,  shaped  like  a  pyramid  and  covered  with  whipped 
cream. 

"Inside  we  have  layers  of  sponge-cake,  almond  icing  and 
chopped  pieces  of  burnt  sugar,"  observed  Peter  reveren- 
tially. 

"Exactly,"  said  the  general.  "I  have  eaten  the  same 
thing  at  M.  Barras'." 

"Indeed,  sir?" 

Peter's  eyes  fell  on  the  card.  Being  written,  as  it 
were,  for  the  whole  world  to  see,  he  did  not  scruple  to 
read  it  aloud.  Peter  was  proud  of  his  learning. 

"I  am  desolated  (it  ran)  and  at  the  same  time  delighted ! 
My  daughter,  Hortense,  has  just  arrived  from  school  to 
pay  me  a  surprise  visit.  The  dear  child  has  only  permis- 
sion to  stay  a  few  days.  I  have  not  the  heart  to  leave 
her.  Pray  accept  my  sincere  excuses  and  this  little  cake, 
which  I  am  sending  round  to  console  you  for  my  absence. 
Josephine." 

The  general  laughed  boyishly.  "You  are  an  old  sinner, 
my  friend,"  he  said.  "I'll  see  you  again  later.  Hist,  Peter, 
I  am  devilish  hungry." 

Peter  made  a  sudden  dart  and,  grabbing  a  meat-pie,  he 
pointed  to  the  window  niche.  "An  appetizer,"  he  said, 
slipping  the  dainty  into  the  general's  hand. 

Bonaparte,  in  spite  of  his  gloves,  whose  ultimate  ruin 
he  was  preparing,  clutched  the  pastry  and,  in  comparative 
seclusion,  with  his  back  turned  to  any  possible  observer, 
he  devoured  the  luscious  morsel.  As  he  had  said,  he  was 
desperately  hungry. 


58  LOVE 

Peter  stooped  and  put  the  guests'  over-boots  in  orderly 
array.  Only  when,  the  general's  j  aws  ceased  working  did 
he  look  up. 

A  shade  of  color  had  crept  into  the  young  officer's  face. 
His  brilliant,  deep-set  eyes  sparkled  with  renewed  fire.  He 
was  now  quite  ready  to  face  any  odds.  Even  a  woman's 
laugh. 


CHAPTER  VII 

GENERAL  BONAPARTE!" 

jje  marched  into  the  room,  head  erect,  though 
his  hands  felt  cold  and  clammy. 

He  was  conscious  of  his  own  insignificance.  His  pov- 
erty struck  him  as  so  ludicrously  real.  He  had  practically 
stolen  his  courage  (what  there  was  of  it)  at  the  expense 
of  one  of  Barras'  immaculate  pies.  Food  is  man's 
salvation. 

Out  of  the  throng  his  kindly  hostess  detached  herself; 
a  plump,  soft-eyed  woman,  modestly  attired. 

"Late  comer!"  she  chided.  "Welcome!  I  think  you 
know  our  little  party?" 

General  Bonaparte  bowed  awkwardly  and  murmured 
an  utterly  inaudible  reply.  He  was  the  prey  of  intense 

nervousness.     Why  had  he  ever  come?     Why ?     He 

scowled,  and  backed  into  a  corner  of  the  room. 

As  a  lady  afterwards  confided  to  her  friend — who  had 
not  the  advantage  of  the  "new"  general's  acquaintance — 
he  frowned  so  wickedly  that  he  absolutely  froze  her  blood. 
And  then  something  or  other  made  him  smile,  and  she 
forgot  everything  else  in  her  admiration  for  his  appear- 
ance. "He's  wonderfully  handsome,"  she  added. 

Evidently — from  the  above — the  new  lion,  underfed  and 
practically  unknown — was  a  creature  of  moods. 

Terezia  Tallien,  from  her  place  at  the  top  of  the  room, 
considered  him  gravely.  Was  he  worth  cultivating?  As 
a  possible  lover,  would  he  satisfy  her  taste?  He  was  thin, 
uncouth,  sprung  from,  comparatively  speaking,  humble 
stock.  Were  not  all  Corsicans  more  or  less  savages  ?  The 
general  had  come  to  Paris  if  not  covered  with  glory  at  least 
with  an  exceptional  military  record.  There  was  no  ques- 

59 


60  LOVE 

tion  as  to  his  bravery.  M.  Barras  said  he  was  clever 
.  .  .  later  on  he  might  do.  He  might  amuse  her.  The 
little  man  did  not  look  at  her.  Her  eyes  swept  his  person 
and  rested  on  his  boots.  Evidently  the  boots  were  not 
worthy  the  man !  He  looked  extraordinarily  boyish. 

Terezia  turned  to  her  hostess. 

"I  want  to  know  our  vaudeville  general,"  she  said.  "A 
man  who  scowls  like  that  must  be  interesting.  Does  he 
eat  babies,  dearest?" 

And  she  laughed  and  leaned  sideways  in  her  high-backed 
gilt  chair,  letting  her  beautiful  bare  arms  fall  downwards. 

The  general  recognized  the  laugh. 

He  had  heard  of  Madame  Tallien  and  he  hadn't  approved 
of  her.  Her  character  did  not  bear  scrutiny.  A  woman 
who  could  deliberately  marry  Tallien  couldn't  be  worth 
many  soldi. 

She  was  beautiful — yes,  beautiful  as  a  glowing,  soulless 
picture.  He  despised  her  airs  and  graces.  His  keen  blue 
eyes  flashed  across  the  circle  of  men  drawn  around  her, 
apparently  all  desperately  anxious  to  serve  their  queen. 
All  the  service  she  demanded What  fools ! 

M.  Bourrienne  hurried  up  to  him — a  genial,  pleasant, 
disturbed  man.  He  had  lived  through  so  much  that  he 
was  continually  doubting  the  next  step.  To-day  his  eye- 
brows looked  as  if  they  were  permanently  fixed  at  their 
present  high  level.  His  little  round  blue  eyes  looked  guile- 
less as  an  infant's.  He  appeared  a  young-old  man  of 
forty. 

"General,  Madame  Tallien  wants  to  know  you.  Take 
care,  my  good  fellow ;  she  is  invincible." 

The  general,  who,  feeling  himself  lost  in  the  crowd,  was 
smiling  happily  at  some  joke  of  Captain  Junot's,  who  had 
found  him  out,  and  who  was  standing  staunchly  by  his 
superior  officer's  side,  was  now  obliged  to  face  the  music. 

The  introduction  completed,  he  immediately  retired  to 
his  corner,  looking  blacker  than  ever. 

M.  Barras,  who  noticed  most  things,  was  ridiculously 
pleased  at  this  little  incident. 


LOVE  61 

He  nipped  a  fellow-legislator  in  his  collar  and  whispered 
in  his  ear:  "There  is  a  man  for  you,  worth  his  weight 
twice  in  gold!  La  Cabarus  has  had  her  first  actual  de- 
feat. Now  it  is  her  turn  to  frown.  Poor  darling!  a 
beautiful  woman  never  can  understand  a  personal  af- 
front. Look  at  her  eyes,  sick  with  wonder." 

"Console  her,  Barras." 

Barras  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders.,  "Later  on,"  he 
remarked  cynically,  as  he  turned  to  offer  his  arm  to  his 
hostess  and  led  the  way  into  the  adjoining  dining-room. 

A  poorly-lit  apartment,  with  a  long  table  down  the 
centre  of  the  room,  covered  with  a  curious  selection  of 
eatables.  Here  stood  a  flagon  of  thin  ale  beside  a  spidery 
bottle  of  old  wine.  Flat  hardbake  and  crisp  currant 
loaves ;  dishes  of  fried  fish  and  forcemeat  balls ;  slices  of 
cold  ham  and  some  kind  of  hot  vegetables  dished  with 
parsley-sauce;  red-currant  jellies;  a  big  round  dish  of 
stewed  apples ;  in  an  old  Nankeen  bowl  a  meagre  supply 
of  fancy  biscuits;  on  a  Sevres  plate  a  couple  of  small 
cream  meringues ;  on  the  sideboard  a  dozen  or  so  of  large 
meat-pies.  There  were  no  flowers  on  the  table.  Four 
ancient  and  massive  silver  candlesticks — each  with  its 
lighted  taper — and  two  solid  silver  sugar-basins,  gave,  as 
it  were,  all  the  decoration  needed  to  Madame  Bourrienne's 
dinner-table. 

Tallien  and  Barras  occupied  the  seats  of  honor,  one 
on  each  side  of  their  hostess.  Tallien  was  in  great  form 
to-day.  Across  the  whole  length  of  the  table  one  could 
hear  his  loud,  piercing  voice  laying  down  the  law.  It 
was  quite  necessary  to  insist  on  his  point  of  view,  as  no 
one  felt  in  the  least  inclined  to  contradict  him.  Socially 
speaking,  all  argument  had  died  a  natural  death. 

Madame  Bourrienne  listened  to  his  remarks  with  her 
head  on  one  side,  occasionally  wiping  her  nose,  and  let- 
ting her  eyes  wander  up  and  down  the  table,  taking  in 
the  different  contributions.  .  .  .  On  the  whole  they  would 
not  do  badly.  They  had  dear  Josephine's  cake  in  reserve. 
So  generous,  on  her  poor  little  widow's  pension.  .  «  « 


62  LOVE 

Terezia  had  run  to  a  whole  shoulder  of  veal — a  dish  to  set 
before  a  king.  It  was  well  when  riches  came  into  right 
hands.  .  .  . 

"I  tell  you,"  screamed  Tallien,  tucking  his  big  napkin 
under  his  chin,  "no  one  could  have  settled  the  affair  in 
any  other  manner.  Anything  less  dramatic  would  have 
failed  in  its  purpose.  We  require  a  picturesque  action. 
Nothing  appeals  more  to  our  imagination  than  a  great 
splash  of  color.  A  man's  personality  is  his  most  attrac- 
tive weapon.  I  tell  you " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  murmured  Madame  Bourrienne,  wonder- 
ing who  amongst  the  party  was  responsible  for  the  two 
cream  meringues — and,  incidentally,  who  would  have  the 
honor  of  eating  them. 

In  1795  a  hostess's  anxieties  were,  relatively  speaking, 
small.  Out  of  a  penurious  situation  this  excellent  plan 
had  been  contrived — that  each  guest  should  provide  some- 
thing towards  the  feast — host  and  guest  mutually  ignor- 
ing the  contribution.  Poverty  is  no  hard  master  if  ge- 
nially met.  On  the  contrary:  no  one  questioned  your 
poverty,  but  riches  were  looked  upon  with  distinct  cold- 
ness. Even  M.  Tallien  had  recently  been  questioned  by 
the  Convention  from  what  source  he  happened  to  draw 
his  wealth.  He  had  answered  with  much  promptness, 
and  some  anger,  that  he  had  married  a  rich  man's  daugh- 
ter. Surely  the  honorable  members  recalled  to  mind  his 
excellency  M.  le  comte  de  Cabarus,  ex-financier  to  His 
Majesty  of  Spain?  He  had  worthily  provided  for  his 
only  daughter.  The  honorable  members  did  not  in  the 
least  credit  the  wealth  or  generosity  of  the  ex-financier 
(a  notorious  swindler),  but  they  had  to  accept  the  state- 
ment in  default  of  a  better  one.  As  yet  M.  Tallien's 
star — though  somewhat  dimmed — shone  in  public.  Even 
M.  B arras  had  unconditionally  accepted  his  colleague's 
explanation.  Yet  it  had  not  prevented  him  from  smiling. 
The  joke  was  really  rather  above  the  average.  Was  he, 
Tallien,  a  clever  rogue?  No;  M.  Barras,  even  to  himself, 
couldn't  allow  that  point.  .  .  . 


LOVE  63 

"...  I  would  have  given  my  last  drop  of  blood  to 
clear  the  situation!  I  tell  you!" 

"How  very  interesting!"  murmured  Madame  Bourri- 
enne,  startled  out  of  her  reflections  by  the  increasing 
loudness  of  her  distinguished  guest,  who  was  speaking  and 
eating  with  equal  voracity. 

In  breathless  silence  both  men  and  women  hung  on  the 
oracle's  utterance.  He  was  a  noble  patriot,  Tallien. 

He  had  a  way,  Tallien,  of  choking  over  his  own  words, 
much  as  a  greedy  boy  chokes  over  his  food.  To  gain  time 
he  would  suck  in  his  breath,  and  suddenly  open  his  mouth 
to  its  widest  capacity.  It  was  a  deplorably  ugly  trick. 
His  mouth  at  such  a  moment  looked  like  some  hideous, 
blood-red  cavern.  He  would  throw  back  his  head  and 
close  his  eyes  until  they  appeared  as  narrow  slits  beneath 
his  sloping  forehead,  and  puff  out  his  pasty  cheeks — re- 
peating the  performance  several  times.  .  .  .  Somehow,  his 
loud  dress  harmonized  with  his  loud  voice — his  loud  ges- 
tures were,  as  it  were,  reflected  in  his  outrageous  tie 
and  in  the  color  of  his  high-waisted,  high-collared 
coat.  .  .  . 

M.  Barras,  from  the  complacent  position  of  a  really 
well-turned-out  man,  would  sometimes  pity  "patriot  Tal- 
lien's"  taste  in  dress.  Poor  fellow — what  a  vulgar  devil 
the  lovely  Terezia  had  in  tow!  Why  did  she  not  lick 
him  into  shape?  .  .  .  Why  couldn't  somebody  gag  the 
tiresome  brute?  Ugh!  The  clothes  he  wore  to-night 
were  a  positive  outrage  to  decency.  .  .  . 

Barras,  as  a  relief  to  his  sorely-tried  eyes,  looked  at 
Madame  Tallien. 

She  was  in  great  beauty — guileless,  simple,  quiet.  She 
was  playing  with  a  little  teaspoon  and  lending  an  atten- 
tive ear  to  her  host.  In  the  obscure  light  of  the  dining- 
room  her  face  bloomed  like  some  exotic  flower,  under  a 
crown  of  matchless  gold.  .  .  .  Was  there  ever  such  hair? 
Yes,  and  he  liked  her  flesh-pink  gown,  which  fitted  her 
figure  closely,  only  relieved  by  a  diamond  brooch,  flashing 


64  LOVE 

'at  her  high  waist-line.  .  .  .  She  had  taste  enough  for 
two.  .  .  . 

Looking  up,  Madame  Tallien  happened  to  perceive  M. 
Barras'  approving  glance.  She  smiled — and  modestly 
looked  away.  At  his  leisure  he  studied  her  profile,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that — in  spite  of  his  affection  for 
Madame  Beauharnais — he  would  like  to  know  her  friend 
rather  better  than  hitherto.  Madame  Tallien's  regard 
might  be  worth  cultivating  on  purely  platonic  lines. 

Tallien  pushed  his  plate  aside  with  a  violent  gesture.  "I 
tell  you !"  he  bellowed. 

Barras  gave  him  a  withering  glance.  There  he  was 
again  at  his  old  tricks,  gaping  like  a  whale!  Bah!  the 
man's  capacity  for  big  talk  sickened  him.  What  an 
unmitigated  bore  is  a  conceited  ass! 

At  the  extreme  bottom  of  the  table  he  happened  to 
notice  his  young  friend,  General  Bonaparte,  seated  be- 
tween Junot  and  Madame  de  Beauharnais.  He  could  not 
help  smiling  both  at  the  gravity  of  Bonaparte  and  at  the 
vivacity  of  Madame  Fanny. 

The  general  observed  M.  Barras'  glance.  He  blushed 
furiously,  and  then  turned  deadly  pale. 

M.  Barras  nodded  kindly.  He  didn't  actually  dislike 
the  young  man.  He  had — under  his,  Barras',  orders — 
done  very  well  in  Toulon.  There  was  grit  in  him.  At  a 
pinch  he  might  again  serve  his  masters.  He  would  keep 
his  eye  on  him.  Where  Tallien  brayed,  talent  was  ob- 
viously at  an  advantage.  In  sheer  self-preservation,  Bar- 
ras turned  to  his  hostess  with  a  witty  reminiscence  from 
his  seafaring  days.  The  atmosphere  cleared  as  if  by 
magic,  conversation  became  general,  and  Tallien — yawn- 
ing once — relapsed  into  silence,  furtively  glancing  round 
the  company. 

"Are  you  feeling  ill,  general?"  asked  Madame  de  Beau- 
harnais. 

"I  thank  you,  madame,  I  am  perfectly  well."  Bona- 
parte's voice  was  icy-cold. 

"Lucie  Bourrienne  will  never  see  that  her  rooms  are 


LOVE  65 

properly  ventilated.  Don't  you  feel  the  heat?  The  con- 
sequence is,  she  is  always  suffering  from  colds.  There 
now!  she  is  blowing  her  nose  again." 

The  general  accepted  the  statement  in  silence. 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  twisted  her  multitudinous 
rings  round  her  thin  fingers,  complacently  conscious  of  her 
own  invincible  charms.  She  turned  a  languishing  eye 
on  the  sulky  young  man.  He  wanted  cheering  up,  poor 
boy. 

"I  take  a  great  interest  in  you,  general.  You  must 
forgive  an  old  lady's  plain-speaking." 

"Madam?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir.  When  I  have  occasion  to  dislike  a 
person,  I  am  just  as  frank."  (Junot  stared  entranced 
at  her  wonderful  face.  He  had  never  seen  anything  like 
it  before.  For  the  matter  of  that,  he  was  a  raw  recruit 
in  polite  society.)  "Very  few  young  men  are  as  well-read 
as  you,  general." 

Bonaparte  gave  her  a  glance. 

"I  have  been  told  that  you  appreciate  Ossian.  What 
a  poet!  As  you  know,  I  am  myself,  in  a  small  way,  an 
authoress.  We  have  a  fellow-feeling,  yet  I  envy  as  much 
as  I  admire  my  master's  flawless  composition.  What 
liquid  lines!  What  easy  expression!  And,  above  all, 
how  uncommonly  true  to  life!  A  book  must  live  to 
endure.  Alas,  I  have  not  Ossian's  noble  gift  of  expres- 
sion." (A  sigh.  Another  stare  from  Junot.  Bonaparte 
immovable  as  a  stone  image.)  "I  read  him  last  night, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  sat  up  unreasonably  late.  I  admit  my 
weakness.  Sir,  I  am  a  great  admirer  of  genius." 

She  fluttered  her  tiny  fan  and  glanced  at  the  tall  cap- 
tain. What  extremely  odd  people  one  met  nowadays! 
Junot's  frank  stare  disturbed  her. 

"Kindly  pass  me  that  flask  of  wine,"  she  said  with 
haughty  condescension.  Evidently  poor  Junot  was  not  an 
admirer  of  Ossian,  and  therefore  incapable  of  interesting 
Madame  de  Beauharnais. 

Junot  bowed  gallantly  and,  stretching  out  his  great 


66  LOVE 

arm,  he  managed  to  reach  the  bottle.  He  shook  it,  with 
a  face  of  comical  dismay — it  was  empty.  As  it  happened, 
the  brave  captain  caught  the  eye  of  Peter,  and  im- 
mediately he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  spotted 
the  thief.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the  old  man's  guilt. 
He  was  nodding  behind  Bonaparte's  chair  like  an  old 
baboon.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  wine  had  gone  into  a 
new  bottle,  and  into  the  pocket  of  his  favorite's  weather- 
worn overcoat.  He  only  hoped  the  saints  would  in  due 
course  inform  the  general  of  his  good  luck.  "He  is  not 
a  popular  guest,"  thought  the  old  servant  sadly.  "Not 
by  the  look  of  him.  Between  feasts  there  are  long  days 
of  lean  privation." 

"Madam,  it  is  empty." 

Junot's  tone  of  utter  dejection  roused  Bonaparte  like 
the  snap  of  a  timely  pistol.  He  shouted  with  laughter. 

From  that  moment  Madame  Fanny  had  no  cause  to 
complain  of  the  general's  inaittention.  He  talked  on 
every  conceivable  subject  and  was  hilariously  gay. 

Junot  egged  Napoleon  on  to  new  efforts,  and  kept 
assiduously  passing  him  food.  Not  a  dish  came  that 
way  without  being  sampled. 

As  to  Madame  de  Beauharnais,  under  cover  of  the 
young  officer's  lively  banter,  she  managed  to  slip  many  a 
toothsome  morsel  into  her  famous  reticule.  She  did  it  so 
openly  that  Junot  could  not  help  wondering  how — on  her 
return  home — she  managed,  as  it  were,  to  separate  the 
goats  from  the  sheep,  and  anyhow,  if  she  did  not  find  them 
in  a  sticky  condition.  It  was  a  monstrous  difficult  prob- 
lem. 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Bonaparte,  "I  have  every  intention 
of  leaving  the  army  and  settling  down  in  Paris  as  a  house 
proprietor.  I  shall  have  much  pleasure  in  letting  you  a 
flat  at  a  purely  nominal  rental.  A  lady  who  appreciates 
Ossian  must  be  allowed  some  advantage.  Junot  will  have 
to  pay  through  his  nose.  He  will  also  fit  him  out  with  a 
wife." 

"I  have  found  her "  said  Junot. 


LOVE  67 

Captain  Junot's  love-affairs  did  not  interest  Madame 
Fanny.  She  turned  to  the  general.  "I  am  disappointed 
in  you,"  she  said  archly.  "You  ought  to  do  better." 

Junot  laughed.  "So  that  is  your  little  idea,  my  gen- 
eral?" 

"One  of  the  smallest." 

"And  the  greatest?  We'll  wring  his  secrets  from  him, 
madam." 

"Sultan  of  Turkey.  Wouldn't  I  make  an  excellent  em- 
peror, Junot?" 

"First-rate!" 

"You  may  laugh,  my  friend,  but  I  am  speaking  in 
perfect  good  faith.  I  am  not  easily  satisfied,  madam." 

"He  is  the  greatest  martinet  alive,"  murmured  Junot. 
"And  he  has  got  the  energy  of  ten  devils.  General,  I 
salute  my  future  Emperor." 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  blinked  her  eyes  and  ate 
toasted  cheese  and  bread  with  excellent  appetite.  "Noth- 
ing in  this  world  ever  surprises  me,"  she  announced  calmly. 
They  all  three  nodded  their  heads  in  time. 

Once  or  twice  M.  Tallien's  uneasy  glance  fell  covertly 
on  the  little  Corsican  officer,  who  seemed  to  be  amusing 
himself  at  the  far  end  of  the  table.  He  never  liked  the 
general,  but  in  any  case  he  preferred  him  sulky. 

Tallien  pinched  his  upper  lip  reflectively  and  resolved 
that  he  would  take  the  very  first  opportunity  which  of- 
fered to  promote  General  Bonaparte  to  some  post  abroad. 
It  might  do  him  good  to  see  some  other  branch  of  the 
service.  It  was  said  he  was  passionately  devoted  to  his 
guns — well,  he  would  sever  his  connection  with  the  artil- 
lery. General  Bonaparte  was  lost  in  Paris.  Again  he 
smoothed  his  upper  lip  and  looked  at  Barras  (Barras  was 
not  looking  at  him,  but  at  his  wife) ....  Barras  thought 
a  great  deal  too  much  of  Bonaparte's  capabilities.  He'd 
been  lucky — that's  all.  At  the  present  moment  Tallien 
shunned  all  competition. 

The  pulses  beat  painfully  in  M.  Tallien's  temples  before 
the  lengthy  meal  drew  towards  its  close.  Many  of  the 


68  LOVE 

guests  had  changed  their  seats.  Terezia  had  made  room 
for  M.  Barras  at  her  right  hand.  They  were  whisper- 
ing together,  and  Terezia  was  smiling .  .  .  damn  the 
shameless  harlot!  Tallien's  thoughts  swung  backwards 
and  forwards  like  a  pendulum  of  a  clock.  He  recalled 
Terezia's  smiles  in  the  old  days,  directed  exclusively  to- 
wards himself,  those  vanished  days  of  glory  when  he  ruled 
Bordeaux.  .  .  .  The  chatter  of  Bourrienne's  guests 
seemed  to  break  into  the  clamor  of  an  excited  crowd .  .  . 
he  struck  his  fist  on  the  table  and  shattered  a  wine-glass. 

"It  does  not  matter  in  the  least,"  said  Madame 
Bourrienne  politely,  glancing  up  with  an  involuntary 
shiver  at  Tallien's  face. 

Madame  TaUien  laughed.  She  was  feeling  so  happy — 
so  sure  of  herself  (she  glanced  full  into  Barras'  rather 
misty  eyes) — so  sure  of  him.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  seen  anything  lately  of  the  Widow  Beau- 
harnais?"  she  asked  sweetly. 

M.  Barras  relaxed  his  hold  on  Terezia's  little  hand, 
which  he  had  but  a  moment  before  longed  passionately 
to  press  to  his  lips.  He  drew  back  from  her  as  you  would 
from  something  evil. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  softly,  "I  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing her  last  night." 

With  a  pang  at  his  heart  he  remembered  Josephine's 
gentle  grace,  her  dove-like  softness,  her  implicit  trust  in 
himself.  He  pulled  himself  upright,  staring  at  a  picture 
on  the  opposite  wall. 

Terezia  laughed  her  silvery,  musical  laugh.  (As  if 
dearest  Josephine  could  ever  compete  with  herself!  The 
mere  idea  was  preposterous.) 

"The  next  time  you  meet,  give  her  my  love,"  she  said. 

"I  thank  you,  madam,"  said  Barras  coldly,  still  con- 
templating the  portrait  of  Bourrienne's  grandmother. 

Terezia  leaned  forward,  until  her  breath  fanned  Barras' 
averted  cheek.  "Oh,"  she  murmured,  "what  have  I  done 
to  offend  you?"  She  laid  a  light  finger  on  his  arm. 
"Tell  me." 


LOVE  69 

It  was  useless;  he  could  not  resist  her.  She  was  irre- 
sistible with  that  quiver  in  her  voice  and  her  flushed  face 
and  her  warm,  loving  glances.  Besides,  he  had  never  in 
all  his  life  resisted  either  pleasure  or  temptation.  It  was 
not  in  his  line.  .  .  .  For  all  that,  he  stoutly  declared  to 
himself,  as  he  relaxed  his  guard,  Madame  Josephine  was 
infinitely  Madame  Terezia's  superior. 

He  turned  and  faced  her  boldly.  "You  glorious 
woman!"  he  breathed  rather  than  spoke.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  expand  and  grow  darker,  and  he  held  himself 
proudly.  Desire  gives  us  strength. 

Opposite  them,  Tallien  with  difficulty  controlled  his 
indignation.  He  knew  the  preliminaries  of  the  game  so 
well.  .  .  .  Then  Terezia's  iniquities  faded.  .  .  .  He  seemed 
to  hear  above  the  gay  company  the  single  note  of  a 
mournful  bell.  The  bell  was  ringing,  slowly,  relentlessly 
— sounding  his  own  downfall.  He  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hand. 

Terezia  smiled. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

TT  was  Tuesday  evening,  and  already  the  great  suite  of 
reception-saloons — of  which  the  little  white  music-room 
formed  the  last — were  in  order  to  receive  the  fashionable 
world  of  Paris.  Many  a  light  gleamed  from  the  massive 
chandeliers.  Here  and  there  groups  of  hothouse  plants 
gave  a  festive  note  to  the  decorations.  In  the  card- 
rooms  tables  had  been  set  out  for  those  who  did  not  ap- 
preciate dancing.  In  the  green  gallery — furnished  all 
its  length  with  comfortable  settees — M.  Barras'  servants 
had  arranged  a  well-provided  buffet.  Nothing  lacked 
in  this  rich  man's  house.  The  enormous  ballroom  was 
brilliantly  lighted.  Already  the  musicians  had  taken  up 
their  places  in  the  music  gallery,  and  at  least  two  indis- 
creet maids — giving  a  last  ecstatic  look  at  the  prepara- 
tions— had  slipped  ignominously  on  the  highly-polished 
parquet  floor. 

The  music-room — a  corner  apartment  with  two  tall 
windows,  one  on  each  side  of  the  panelled  walls  painted 
by  Boucher — had  a  peculiarly  intimate  air.  The  fur- 
niture was  of  the  lightest  description,  the  coloring  of 
the  daintiest.  Against  the  white-panelled  walls  the 
slender  chairs,  upholstered  in  palest  blue  silk  with  gilt 
woodwork,  looked  charming.  From  the  domed  ceiling 
hung  an  ancient  crystal  chandelier,  at  present  fitted  with 
twelve  lighted  candles.  There  was  something  mysterious 
in  the  little  room.  Something  which  spoke  of  long-dead 
days.  The  Luxembourg  is  full  of  memories — and  mem- 
ories are  as  often  as  not  tinged  with  sadness.  For  is  not 
the  joy  linked  by  sorrow? 

M.  Barras — fully  dressed  for  the  evening's  festivities 
— was  playing  a  ronda  by  Mozart.  A  little  fantasia  with 

70 


LOVE  71 

a  light  melodious  melody,  composed  for  the  wedding  cele- 
brations of  Elizabeth  Haifner,  in  1776.  It  seemed  to 
wake  the  echoes  of  the  past.  So  much  had  happened  in 
less  than  two  decades. 

His  fingers  flew  over  the  ivory  keys  and  his  thought's 
took  another  direction.  .  .  .  He  was  tired  of  the  Con- 
vention, dog-tired  of  the  ceaseless  wrangles  and  disputes. 
What  would  be  the  upshot  of  all  this  noise?  He  was  too 
much  of  an  artist  to  underrate  discord.  It  worried  him 
intensely,  when  he  chose  to  listen.  As  a  rule,  he  found 
it  easier  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  difficulties  which  he  could 
not  avert.  .  .  . 

He  had  behaved  as  an  arrant  fool  the  other  night  at 
the  Bourriennes'.  (The  music  grew  stormier.)  "Notre 
Dame  de  Thermidor"  had  had  every  reason  to  smile  hap- 
pily as  he  had  folded  her  soft  fox-skin  coat  around  her 
warm  shoulders  .  .  .  the  scent  of  her  hair  had  intoxicated 
him.  .  .  .  She  had  whispered  a  few  words  and  given  him 
a  few  extremely  intelligible  glances  .  .  .  the  old,  old  wiles 
of  every  unscrupulous  woman  (he  gave  a  bitter  laugh). 
And  he  had  immediately  responded  with  less  dignity  than 
any  mealy-mouthed  boy.  Looking  back  on  the  incident, 
he  hated  her  .  .  .  yes,  he  hated  her!  (Which  only  shows 
us  that,  for  all  his  muscular  strength,  M.  Barras  was  a 
weak  man.) 

A  pretty  maid-servant,  with  a  pan  and  brush  in  her 
hand,  stopped  to  listen  to  the  music  through  the  cur- 
tained doorway.  (There  had  been  an  accident  in  the 
card-room;  a  clumsy  footman  in  removing  his  step-ladder 
had  knocked  down  a  bunch  of  crystal  drops  from  the 
chandelier.  .  .  .)  She  peeped  at  M.  Barras,  holding 
her  breath  at  her  audacity.  How  handsome  he  looked 
in  his  grand  new  evening  clothes !  She  noticed  the  blue 
veins  on  his  massive  forehead.  .  .  .  How  beautifully  he 
played !  .  .  .  Lord  forgive  her  impudence !  And  away  she 
fluttered,  light  as  an  evening  moth. 

The  music  grew  fiercer  than  ever.  With  a  final  tre- 
mendous chord  M.  Barras  rose — rather  stiffly — shut  up 


72  LOVE 

the  piano,  and  raising  himself  on  tiptoe,  he  blew  out  the 
candles  in  the  little  chandelier — a  gem  of  sixteenth-cen- 
tury workmanship.  It  had  hung  in  the  same  place  for 
two  hundred  years.  In  his  present  humor,  darkness 
suited  him  best. 

He  yawned,  and  stretched  out  a  pair  of  strong  arms. 
Life,  even  under  its  worst  aspect,  had  its  compensations. 
He  smiled.  As  long  as  he  had  the  heart  to  enjoy  him- 
self, what  did  the  rest  matter?  .  .  .  He  would  explain 
the  situation  to  Josephine  .  .  .  she  would  understand  and 
forgive  him  and  all  that  ...  he  would  never  look  at 
Madame  Tallien  again.  .  .  .  Was  she  not  a  bit  over- 
blown, in  spite  of  her  youth  ...  a  bruised  flower — eh? 

M.  Barras,  tired  of  his  own  society,  strode  through 
the  long  file  of  reception-rooms  in  search  of  his  secretary. 
Even  at  that  hour  he  would  be  sure  to  find  him  with  his 
nose  at  his  desk.  An  incredible  man  for  work  was  M. 
Joseph. 

He  whistled  the  latest  popular  melody  from  the  music- 
halls  as  he  swaggered  along,  giving  a  glance  to  right  and 
left.  Everything  was  in  order.  The  rooms  had  been 
discreetly  warmed  and  even  a  window  opened  to  air  them. 
Must  have  been  Joseph's  doing.  Joseph  was  not  only  M. 
Barras'  private  secretary  but  also  his  housekeeper.  He 
kept  the  bills  and  he  saw  to  the  coals.  Which  is  merely 
one  way  of  saying  he  managed  everything. 

In  the  green  drawing-room  M.  Barras  paused  to  ar- 
range his  neck-tie  in  front  of  a  cheval  glass.  The  glass 
was  put  there  (by  Joseph)  for  the  use  of  the  ladies. 
Men  were  permitted  to  take  advantage  of  it.  In  those 
days  men  often  had  the  advantage  of  ladies  in  dress. 

Heigh-day !  Mine  host  was  fine.  Look  at  his  immacu- 
lately fitting  coat  of  fuchsia-red  satin  —  his  skin-tight 
white  satin  knee-breeches — his  black  silk  stockings — his 
diamond-buckled  shoes — the  feathered  hat  he  carried 
under  his  arm.  (Presently  he'd  put  it  down;  couldn't  be 
bored  to  carry  it;  the  feathered  hat  which  would  empha- 
size his  compliments.)  Can't  you  see  him,  bowing,  scrap- 


LOVE  73 

ing  his  heels,  to  his  guests,  and  pressing  his  hat  to  his 
heart?  He'd  do  it  very  well,  too.  An  elegant  gentleman, 
with  a  great  opinion  of  himself.  The  combination  al- 
ways does  well  in  society.  Here  he  was  at  home.  In  the 
Orleans'  old  palace  he  was  uncrowned  king  of  the  day. 

Listen!  The  music  is  tuning  up.  Servants  are  run- 
ning about  with  lighted  tapers.  In  some  rooms  the  soft 
radiance  of  countless  wax  candles  gives  the  finishing  touch 
to  M.  Joseph's  preparations  for  the  proper  entertain- 
ment of  M.  Barras'  guests.  By  the  way,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  list — amongst  the  young  men  always  asked  to 
parties  in  batches — stood  the  name  of  General  Napoleon 
Bonaparte.  He  had  accepted.  But,  of  course.  No 
doubt  he  was  very  excited  and  impressed  by  the  com- 
pliment paid  him.  So  many  young  men,  and  women  too, 
hungered  for  invitations  to  the  Luxembourg  parties.  M. 
Joseph  could  not  fit  them  all  in. 

There  he  was,  scribbling  away  as  fast  as  he  could  go, 
barely  glancing  up  at  M.  Barras'  interruption. 

M.  Barras  had  put  a  good-natured  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "in  ten  minutes  we'll  have  them  here.'* 

"I  know.     Your  friends  are  punctual." 

Barras  seated  himself  in  a  great  leather  chair.  The 
library  was  all  furnished  in  embossed  leather.  A  very 
handsome  apartment. 

"That's  a  pretty  plant,"  he  said,  looking  at  a  group 
of  flowers  by  the  window.  "I  wonder  how  they  grow 
those  things." 

"Attention  and  money." 

"Then  give  it  to  me.  Am  I  not  worth  more  than  a 
Christmas  rose?  Ha-ha!" 

Joseph  put  down  his  pen  and  looked  at  his  employer. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "we'll  have  to  reduce  our  budget.  The 
pay  of  an  army  corps  will  have  to  come  down  to  three 
lows  d'ors  a  month." 

"I  hate  business " 

"So  do  I,  in  moderation.    There's  bound  to  be  trouble." 


74  LOVE 

"They'll  get  their  arrears  later  on." 

"Except  a  miracle  happens  they'll  have  to  eat  their 
boots." 

"We  have  got  to  make  money." 

"Or  save  it." 

"I'm  bound  to  entertain,  if  you  mean  that,  Joseph." 

He  waved  his  hand.  "Touch  the  bell,  will  you?  I  am 
thirsty  as  a  crocodile." 

His  secretary  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  small  bureau. 
He  was  very  nearly  as  finely  dressed  as  M.  Barras.  No 
one  would  have  recognized  him  as  the  turnkey  of  Les 
Cannes.  Joseph  was  carefully  shaved;  his  finger-nails 
were  polished;  his  swallow^tailed  coat  fitted  him  to  per- 
fection— in  a  word,  he  .was  the  type  of  an  .elegant  young 
gentleman  of  1795. 

He  came  across  the  room.  "I  would  not  advise  it," 
he  said.  "Better  start  sober,  sir.  You  have  a  good 
long  evening  before  you.  M.  Barras*  Tuesdays  invari- 
ably encroach  on  Madame  Tallien's  Wednesdays."  He 
turned  away,  looking  down  the  long  vista  of  illuminated 
rooms.  "Let  us  dance  and  forget,  for  to-morrow  we  die. 
It  is  a  fine  principle  and  poor  doctrine." 

"I  am  sick  of  authority " 

"Give  it  up " 

"To  that  mendacious  fool,  Tallien?" 

"He  would  not  keep  it  for  long." 

"Long  enough  to  raise  hell.  He  would  love  to  whip 
'em  all  back  into  prison.  By  the  way,  Joseph,  it  is 
rather  gratifying  to  see  how  the  old  order  is  returning. 
We  have  got  a  lot  of  'em  here  to-night." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  don't  care  a  dewer  if  they  consider  it  merely  an 
unpleasant  duty  I  They  save  the  situation.  The  young 
bloods  are  rather  inclined  to  go  the  pace " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"They  are  only  fools." 

"Fools  can  be  as  destructive  as  clever  people." 

"I  can  see  Tallien  licking  his  mouth." 


LOVE  75 

"He  is  better  out  of  Paris.  We'll  find  him  a  lucrative 
post  in  the  provinces." 

"They  are  just  as  badly  off  as  we  are " 

"At  Quiberon  our  pig  might  scent  some  truffles.  He  is 
a  greedy  fellow,  who  suffers  from — nerves."  (Joseph 
smiled.)  "As  a  matter  of  fact  he  is  very  nearly  harmless. 
His  marriage  has  pretty  well  done  for  him " 

"On  the  contrary " 

"Tallien  can  never  obliterate  the  past." 

"Madame  Tallien " 

"I  saw  the  lady  daily  for  six  months." 

B arras  laughed.     "Anyhow,  she  is   a  beauty." 

"You  can  make  love  to  her,  sir." 

"I  have  no  intention " 

"She  has  all  the  more.  Terezia  takes  everything  she 
likes  under  cover  of  charity." 

"Confound  it!  Why  can't  women  learn  to  leave  me 
alone?" 

"You   are   a  poor  teacher,   Citizen  Barras." 

A  bell  rang.  .  .  .  Footsteps  sounded  in  the  hall.  .  .  . 
Several  bells  ...  a  murmur  of  voices.  From  the  great 
courtyard  below  a  link-boy  shouted.  His  shrill  voice 
penetrated  the  double  windows. 

"Sir,"  said  Joseph,  with  a  catch  in  his  breath,  "the  little 
general  will  slay  the  pig,  and  not  only  Tallien  but  all 
that  he  stands  for — riot,  misery,  starvation.  That  is  to 
say,  if  he  is  given  his  chance.  At  the  present  moment 
he  is  handicapped  for  want  of  employment.  The  man 
who  saved  Toulon  is  capable  of  saving  France." 

Barras  pulled  himself  upright. 

"France  will  have  to  wait,"  he  said  coldly.  He  was 
already  growing  very  jealous  of  Bonaparte's  prestige. 

Away  in  the  ballroom  the  music  struck  up  a  popular 
melody.     "That  is  more  our  tune,"  he  added,  slipping  on 
his  gloves.     "Joseph,  a  word  in  your  ear.     Look  after 
Madame  Tallien." 
>   "You  are   the  best  man " 

"I  insist  on  her  being  kept  out  of  my  way." 


76  LOVE 

"And  Madame  de  Beauharnais  kept  in  ignorance  ?" 

"Pshaw!  there  is  nothing  to  hide.  Pass  her  on  to 
the  valiant  Bonaparte." 

"Who?     Madame  Josephine?" 

"She  wouldn't  look  at  him.  Terezia  will  fit  him  into 
her  crowd." 

A  group  of  elegant  people  were  passing  into  the  ball- 
room, staring  around  them  with  frank  interest.  Society 
was  of  exquisite  freshness.  The  ballroom  was  the  same 
in  which  la  Grande  Mademoiselle  had  danced  with  her 
ill-favored  cousin,  Charles  the  Martyr's  fugitive  son — 
keeping  an  eye  on  the  anointed  Louis,  twelve  years  her 
junior  and  not  yet  in  his  teens,  but  still  the  best  match 
in  Europe.  .  .  . 

And  away  strode  M.  Barras  to  do  the  honors  of  his 
house. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  music  was  vibrating  gently  from  the  great  ball- 
room.  In  the  green  drawing-room — for  the  moment 
deserted — Josephine  was  standing  in  front  of  the  swing 
mirror,  adjusting  a  dance-blown  curl. 

She  was  fashionably  attired  in  a  short,  pure-white 
satin  gown,  with  touches  of  silver  and  rose-colored  tulle. 
Her  little  white  satin  sandals  (an  extravagantly  new 
idea  copied  from  the  ancients)  were  laced  across  her 
slender  ankles  with  blue  ribbons.  Her  face  was  liberally 
sprinkled  with  powder,  and  her  cheeks  and  lips  were 
rouged  with  careful  attention  to  a  natural  effect. 

Josephine  twisted  the  curl  carefully  round  her  little 
finger  and  smiled  at  her  charming  reflection.  She  was 
conscious  of  looking  her  best. 

Yet  so  perverse  is  human  nature,  that  she  turned,  with 
a  little  anxious  pucker  between  her  curved  brows,  to  her 
friend,  lazily  watching  her  from  the  depths  of  a  com- 
fortable chair.  "How  do  I  look?"  she  asked.  "I  feel 
disgracefully  untidy.  You  are  simply  marvellous  to-night, 
Terezia.  Some  of  the  ladies  are  dreadlfully  shocked. 
Turn  round.  Yes,  exactly.  You  leave  very  little  to  the 
imagination." 

Madame  Tallien  stretched  her  long  limbs  and  laughed 
good-naturedly.  "Someone  must  set  the  fashion,"  she 
said.  "After  to-night  everyone  will  turn  Incroyable." 

Josephine  made  a  delightful  little  grimace  at  the  mir- 
ror. "God  spare  us,"  she  said  piously.  "Fancy  the 
horrid  sights  we'll  see!  If  a  woman  has  a  decent  shape 
she  can  do  what  she  likes — but  think  of  the  unwieldy 
mammas  or  their  skinny  daughters  appearing  in  the  dress 
you  are  launching  to-night!" 

77 


78  LOVE 

"What  is  the  matter  with  it?" 
"It  is  indecent,  for  one  thing." 

"Nonsense!  I  have  the  most  beautiful  figure  in 
Paris » 

Josephine  turned  round  with  raised  hands.  "And  the 
most  beautiful  feet  and  the  most  beautiful  garters,"  she 
mimicked.  "You  are  practically  naked,  darling." 

"Am  I?"  sighed  "Our  Lady  of  Charity."  (There  was 
no  end  to  her  titles — they  cropped  up  like  mushrooms 
in  the  daily  press.)  "I  have  received  charming  compli- 
ments from  everyone.  Oh,  I  assure  you " 

Josephine  slipped  into  a  chair  opposite  her  friend. 
"You  little  goosie-goose,"  she  said.  "And  what  do  you 
think  they  say  behind  your  back?" 

"Do  tell  me!"  (Here  was  a  subject  of  absorbing  in- 
terest !) 

"No,  I  won't,"  snapped  Josephine,  almost  severely. 
"Gossip  is  always  horrid  and  nearly  always  false.  I 
heard,  par  exemple,  that  M.  B arras,  the  other  day,  at 
the  Bourriennes'  dinner,  paid  you  extravagant  atten- 
tion  " 

"What  a  story!" 

"That  your  two  heads  were  continually  together — 

"The  idea!" 

"That  when  he  ceased  staring  at  you,  you  looked  him 
out  of  countenance " 

"My  dearest!" 

"Once  he  so  far  forgot  himself — yes,  in  front  of  every- 
one— he  kissed  your  cheek;  and  that,  instead  of  box- 
ing his  ears,  you  appeared  celestially  happy.  There! 
Terezia,  you  are  not  nearly  careful  enough." 

Terezia  balanced  one  foot  on  the  other  and  shifted  her 
position  so  that  her  narrow  draperies — of  some  corn- 
colored  silk  muslin — fell  apart,  disclosing  the  clou  of  her 
costume,  a  broad,  plain  gold  circlet  worn  above  her  left 
knee,  matching  a  similar  band  in  her  hair.  Beneath  the 
corn-colored  muslin  she  wore  flesh-colored  tights. 

"What  silly  stories  people  invent !    My  dearest  Joseph- 


LOVE  79 

ine,  do  you  really  think  it  would  amuse  me  to  flirt  with 
your  avowed  admirer?" 

"I  am  only  joking,  darling,"  said  Josephine  gaily. 
She  did  not  wish  to  quarrel  with  Terezia.  She  was  also 
sure  she  had  heard  an  exaggerated  version  of  what  had 
happened  at  the  Bourriennes'  .  .  .  Paul  Barras  was  her 
devoted  lover  .  .  .  only  to-night  he  had  looked  at  her  so 
tenderly — half-reproachful,  half-sorrowful.  He  had  been 
so  taken  up  with  his  duties  as  host  that,  so  far,  they 
had  had  no  opportunity  for  private  conversation.  .  .  . 
"How  many  times  have  you  danced  this  evening  with 
M.  Barras?"  she  asked  gently. 

Terezia  shut  her  eyes.  "Twice,  I  believe,  but  I  can't 
remember.  You  still  have  your  doubts?"  (She  opened 
her  eyes.)  "Time  will  prove  my  innocence,"  she  said 
very  virtuously. 

"No  doubt,"  said  Josephine,  placidly. 

Terezia  rose  excitedly  and  stared  at  her  face  in  the 
mirror.  She  gave  a  long-drawn  sigh  of  pure  content. 
"Ah,  ah!"  she  said,  raising  her  arms  above  her  head. 
"What  it  is  to  be  alive  again — really  alive,  after  all  we 
have  gone  through !  I  enjoy  every  minute.  It  is  ex- 
quisite !  I  don't  mind  how  many  lovers  I  have." 

"And  you'll  never  love  anyone  but  yourself." 

"You  are  the  right  person  to  speak!"  She  flashed 
round.  "Get  up,  darling;  this  is  my  favorite  dance,  and 
Pve  promised  it  to  that  little  stiff-necked  piece  of  decorum, 
General  Bonaparte.  Don't  we  both  like  having  a  good 
time?" 

They  kissed  each  other.  "The  general?  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  hkn  in  the  refreshment-room." 

"They  say  he  has  nothing  but  debts,  and  that  he  keeps 
his  people  on  his  miserable  pay." 

"That  is  nice  of  him." 

"He  is  a  paragon.  Come;  I  will  introduce  him."  She 
looked  critically  at  Josephine.  "My  dearest,  you  want 
a  new  distraction.  I  would  in  your  place  give  M.  Barras 


80  LOVE 

his  conge  and  take  on  the  little  general.  You  can't  af- 
ford to  lose  flesh." 

Josephine  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Take  care  you 
don't  get  too  fat,"  she  retorted.  "Keep  him  yourself." 

"He  is  not  my  style,"  said  Terezia,  candidly.  She  drew 
herself  up  to  her  full  height,  and  leaned  backwards,  hold- 
ing her  hands  beneath  her  splendid  bust,  letting  her 
eyes  slowly  sink  to  the  level  of  her  bare  feet — as  if  admir- 
ing the  antique  ring  ornamenting  her  left  big  toe.  Her 
pink  satin  sandals  were  extremely  low-cut — a  very  apol- 
ogy for  a  shoe.  In  truth  she  had  every  cause  to  love  her 
feet — they  were  flawless. 

"You  ought  to  marry  him  yourself.  Widows  are  out 
of  it.  A  husband  is  such  an  enormous  protection." 

Terezia  yawned.  "I  feel  so  excited.  Come  along,  sweet 
pet." 

She  put  her  arm  around  Madame  Beauharnais'  supple 
waist.  "You  are  soft  as  a  kitten,"  she  said.  "I  am  so 
glad  you  are  out  of  mourning." 

Josephine  murmured  something,  which  Terezia  didn't 
catch.  In  the  doorway  the  ladies  paused,  looking  down 
the  long  picture-gallery.  Every  seat  was  occupied. 
They  got  all  the  attention  they  wanted. 

Terezia  smiled. 

"They  don't  love  me,"  she  murmured.  She  must  have 
meant  the  elderly  ladies.  At  sight  of  her  half  a  dozen 
men  rushed  forward.  She  waved  them  aside — still  keep- 
ing her  arm  round  Josephine. 

"I'm  engaged  for  this  dance.  I  am  waiting  for  my 
partner." 

"He  seems  a  bad  young  man,"  said  Josephine. 

They  walked  down  the  gallery  arm-in-arm,  we  may  be 
sure  with  every  eye  upon  them.  Terezia's  favorite  waltz 
had  crowded  the  ballroom.  The  ladies  stood  (in  an  atti- 
tude), watching  the  dancers,  one  of  them  at  least  in  a 
towering  passion. 

"He's  the  rudest  little  man  on  earth!"  said  Terezia. 


LOVE  81 

"Fancy  not  looking  out  for  me !  No  doubt  he's  hiding  in 
some  corner." 

Josephine  sighed.  "It's  only  shyness,  darling.  You 
are  such  a  great  person  and  he's  a  nobody.  Oh,  of  course, 
I  know  all  about  Toulon.  M.  Barras  says  he  behaved  very 
well  and  understood  his  instructions  at  once.  The  others 
floundered.  It  was  such  a  relief  for  dear  Paul.  He  had 
all  the  responsibility,  of  course.  There's  no  knowing 
wJiat  the  English  might  have  done.  M.  Barras  told 
me-—" 

Terezia  stopped  to  tie  her  shoe-lace.  One  or  two  men 
sprang  forward  to  help  her.  She  waved  them  aside. 
"You  treat  women  as  if  they  were  helpless  dolls,"  she 
said,  balancing  herself  on  one  foot  and  adroitly  raising 
the  other. 

The  attitude  was  extremely  graceful  and  flattering 
to  her  figure.  Josephine — standing  by — remembered  that 
dear  Terezia  was  always  coming  to  grief  over  her  san- 
dals. .  .  .  She  dug  her  little  heelless  slipper  into  M. 
B arras's  handsome  pile  carpet,  annoyed  at  dear  Terezia's 
idiotic  methods  of  gaining  attention.  So  unnecessary — 
as  if  people  did  not  stare  enough  at  her! 

"Madame  Tallien !" 

"Chere   Madame   Tallien!" 

"Keep  back!  I  don't  want  any  of  you,"  commanded 
Terezia,  putting  down  her  foot  and  kissing  her  fingers 
to  her  admirers.  "Except  my  dearest  Josephine." 

At  that  moment  the  music  stopped.  The  little  gen- 
eral had  forever  lost  the  good  opinion  of  Madame 
Tallien. 

The  decorative  youths  gaped  open-mouthed  after  the 
"fleeing  Venus."  The  wittiest  young  man  in  the  group 
christened  her  thus  instantly. 

Her  draperies  were  as  foam,  he  said,  and  she  herself 
the  incomparable  Goddess.  ...  If  Terezia  had  heard 
such  a  distinguished  compliment,  who  knows,  she  might 
have  forgiven  an  ill-bred  soldier. 


CHAPTER   X 

A  S  they  passed  through  the  great  rooms  they  formed 
**•  a  very  pretty  picture — these  two  young  women  linked 
together  by  youth  and  inclination,  smiling,  whispering, 
apparently  utterly  unaware  of  the  interest  they  created — 
in  reality  conscious  of  each  shade  of  expression  in  each 
dowager's  steely  glance. 

There,  on  a  gilded  settee,  sat  the  authoress,  Madame 
de  Beauharnais,  talking  to  her  friend  Madame  de  St. 
Innocent — both  representing  a  vanished  world.  Madame 
Fanny  was  magnificent  in  her  flowing,  purple  silk  skirts 
and  her  stiffest  corset.  She  held  herself  as  straight  as  a 
poker — her  immense  powdered  wig  not  a  hair's-breadth 
out  of  place.  So  she  had  sat — in  that  very  same  costume 
— in  the  royal  halls  of  Versailles.  She  breathed  dignity 
and  past  grandeur.  She  weighed  her  words  and  guarded 
her  glances.  She  knew  her  own  place  when  the  world 
looks  on.  .  .  .  Alas ! — except  for  one  or  two  of  her  own 
friends,  no  one  noticed  her.  And  if  they  did  they  only 
laughed  at  her  antediluvian  appearance. 

Madame  St.  Innocent  was,  comparatively  speaking,  a 
young  woman.  She  would  also  have  entirely  escaped 
toublic  attention  except  for  her  history.  She  belonged 
to  the  old  ndblesse — she  held  herself  as  proudly  as 
Madame  Fanny — her  voice  was  soft  and  melodious,  and 
her  big  grey  eyes,  under  their  delicate  arched  brows, 
looked  sad  and  wandering — one  might  also  say  vacant  at 
times.  Was  she  a  ghost,  this  slight  lady  with  her  regular 
features  and  well-bred  air?  .  .  .  No,  she  was  only  a 
woman  who  had  suffered.  Madame  St.  Innocent  had  re- 
cently lost  all  her  nearest  and  dearest  under  peculiarly 
tragic  circumstances.  Even  the  lightest-tongued  woman 

82 


LOVE  83 

in  Paris  unconsciously  lowered  her  voice  in  her  presence: 
— "Why  does  she  persist  in  showing  herself?  She  makes 
me  shiver " 

"Don't  look  at  her "  so  they  said,  these  giddy 

young  representatives  of  a  New  Order. 

In  many  cases  the  surviving  members  of  the  old  aris- 
tocracy considered  it  prudent  to  appear  in  Society — 
this  wonderful,  hideous  mockery  of  society,  where  good 
manners  went  for  naught  and  where  the  newcomers  (wit- 
ness the  Talliens)  carried  all  before  them  by  sheer 
audacity. 

The  New  People  instituted  new  fashions,  new  gestures, 
a  new  language — and  a  code  of  morals  almost  prehistor- 
ically  savage.  There  was  no  limit  to  their  extravagance. 
They  obeyed  no  laws  except  the  laws  of  pleasure.  They 
aped  the  dress  of  the  Greeks  without  understanding  their 
culture.  No  one  grasped  anything  beyond  the  glorious 
fact  that  they  were  at  liberty  .  .  .  each  hour  was  a 
jewel,  a  brilliant  jewel,  shining  in  the  crown  of  Time. 
They  worshipped  the  Present  as  sun-worshippers  wor- 
ship the  heat. 

Even  Madame  Fanny  de  Beauharnais,  though  she  was 
fond  of  Madame  Tallien,  who  had  always  treated  her 
with  distinguished  consideration,  had  to  allow  that  dear 
Terezia's  costume  to-night  was,  if  nothing  else,  a  liberal 
education. 

"Disgraceful!"  she  said,  her  eyes  following  the  two 
ladies  of  fashion,  much  as  she  would  have  looked  at  the 
vulgar  exit  of  a  third-rate  actress.  Mrs.  Fanny  was 
genuinely  shocked.  She  clutched  her  immense  reticule — 
her  best,  gold-framed  bag  of  white  satin,  brocaded  with 
roses — so  tightly  in  her  mittened  hands  and  pressed  her 
lips  so  severely  together,  that  Madame  de  St.  Innocent 
looked  at  her  in  alarm,  half  fearing  for  her  old  friend's 
health. 

In  spite  of  her  wonderful  make-up,  her  best  party  wig 
and  her  new  wreath  of  pink  roses,  Mrs.  Fanny  looked 
her  age  beneath  the  radiance  of  many  candles. 


84  LOVE 

The  music  from  the  adjoining  ball-room  beat  in  merry 
time.  The  dancers  were  shouting,  romping  in  an  endless 
chain — the  women  clutching  their  partners'  coat-tails,  the 
men  circling  the  women's  necks  with  their  arms.  .  .  . 
Here  a  girl  shook  down  her  hair — her  action  meeting  with 
a  shout  of  applause.  The  chain  broke  up — the  couples 
dancing  back  to  back  and,  swinging  round,  they  pranced 
forward — improvising  unique  steps — to  fall  into  each 
other's  arms.  A  mad  stampede  followed — the  best  to  the 
strongest.  Women  were  literally  torn  from  their  part- 
ners, shrieking  half  in  joy,  half  in  terror.  The  music 
pealed  and  clashed  with  the  whoops  of  the  victors — kisses 
and  favors  were  flung  broadcast ;  a  cloud  of  dust  from 
the  floor;  smoke  from  the  guttering  candles — where  the 
grease  fell  into  ready-prepared  pans — a  flutter  of  drap- 
eries and  hot,  clinging  scent,  and  the  air  like  lead.  From 
painted  faces  the  perspiration  ran  in  uneven  patches.  .  .  . 
The  pale  women  looked  the  best,  as  exhausted,  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  they  leaned  against  their  partners. 

Madame  de  St.  Innocent  never  once  glanced  towards 
the  ballroom — where,  through  the  great  arched  doorways, 
a  good  view  of  the  proceedings  could  be  had.  She  sat 
immovable,  erect,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap — looking 
strangely  out  of  place  in  her  old-fashioned,  wide-hooped 
petticoats  and  her  high-heeled  shoes.  Her  well-bred  face 
only  indicated  slight  weariness.  It  was  close  on  midnight. 

"The  weather  is  sad  for  the  poor,"  she  remarked  in 
her  gentle  voice.  "I  have  never  known  such  an  icy  winter, 
nor  such  an  expensive  one.  Last  week  I  had  to  pay  five 
thousand  francs  for  a  load  of  wood." 

"Paper,"  snapped  Mrs.  Fanny,  looking  into  her  reti- 
cule. "I  don't  think  it  is  fair  to  have  supper  so  late.  I 
am  very  hungry." 

"So  am  I,  dear.  Yet  we  must  allow  that  M.  Barras 
does  everything  very  well." 

"He  is  an  excellent  host.  I  have  particularly  remarked 
to-night  that  he  is  always  talking  to  different  people. 


LOVE  85 

Now,  at  the  Bourriennes,  he  and  Terezia  never  left  each 
other's  side.  Everyone  was  remarking  upon  it." 

"Indeed?"  said  Madame  de  St.  Innocent  indifferently. 
"Come  with  me  to  church  to-morrow.  I  am  so  glad  we 
are  allowed  that  privilege."  Madame  de  St.  Innocent 
deliberately  changed  the  conversation.  She  did  not  like 
Madame  Tallien. 

"Sorry,  my  dear,  but  I  have  promised  to  join  a  theatre 
party  to  see  Talma,"  returned  Mrs.  Fanny  with  equal 
coldness.  She  very  much  disliked  being  interrupted  in 
her  remarks.  "I  make  a  point  of  never  going  to  mass  and 
to  the  play  on  the  same  day." 

"Quite  right.  None  of  us  can  afford  to  give  up  our 
principles." 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  sighed.  "It  is  a  mad,  bad 
world,"  she  said.  "If  it  were  not  for  my  religion  and 
my  work  I  would  at  times  feel  very  disheartened."  She 
made  a  gesture  towards  the  ball-room.  "That  is  sufficient 
to  sicken  us.  What  a  display  of  vanity  and  vulgarity!" 
(She  held  herself  with  immense  dignity  and  spoke  very 
clearly.)  "At  present  I  am  writing  a  tragedy,"  she  said, 
"a  noble  theme  and  elevating  to  the  human  mind.  At 
times  my  spirit  soars  on  happy  wings."  (Madame  de  St. 
Innocent  looked  up  at  her.)  "It  is  a  laborious  task  and 
difficult  of  achievement,  yet  I  believe  in  perseverance,  sus- 
tained by  that  inward  glow  which  is  in  itself  a  sufficient 
reward  for  an  artist,  however  humble." 

Mrs.  Fanny  spoke  with  elegant  conviction.  Her  voice 
was  regulated  by  her  gestures.  The  mittened  fingers 
made  passes  in  the  air — Mrs.  Fanny  was  conscious  of  an 
audience. 

Two  young  girls  stood  in  front  of  the  ladies,  respect- 
fully waiting  for  a  pause  in  Madame  de  Beauharnais' 
oration. 

They  were  enchanting  young  creatures:  black-haired, 
pale-skinned,  dark-eyed,  dressed  alike  in  purest  white  satin, 
each  with  a  red  camellia  fastened  in  their  high  blue  sashes. 

Both  the  young  ladies  curtsied  low.     The  prettiest  one, 


86  LOVE 

and  probably  the  elder  of  the  two  sisters,  kissed  Madame 
de  St.  Innocent's  outstretched  hand.  "Pray  excuse  us, 
madame,"  she  began.  "We  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  you. 
My  mother  is  getting  up  a  subscription  ball 

"To  buy  bread  for  the  poor,"  supplemented  the  second 
girl. 

"It  is  going  to   be   simply  lovely * 

"A  perfect  dream !  We  are  all  to  wear  red  dresses,  and 
each  lady  is  to  have  a  black  crepe  bow  tied  round  her 
throat,  and  each  man  a  similar  band  round  his  arm — 

"Mamma  says  no  one  is  to  be  admitted  to  the  Ball  of 
the  Victims  who  has  not  lost  a  relative " 

"All  the  lights  are  to  be  shaded.  Only  serious  dances 
on  the  programme — polonaises,  gavottes,  minuets " 

"Dear  madam,  you  must  be  our  President?  Ah,  no! 
It  is  no  good  refusing.  You  are  by  far  the  greatest 
victim  of  us  all!"  The  young  girl  lowered  her  voice  to 
an  awestruck  whisper:  checking  her  fingers,  she  spoke. 
"You  have  lost  your  husband,  father,  mother,  brothers, 
not  to  mention  several  cousins " 

"You  forget  madam's  sister,"  prompted  the  other 
young  lady,  with  her  round  childish  eyes  fixed  on  Madame 
de  St.  Innocent's  startled  face.  (Madame  de  Beauhar- 
nais,  after  one  glance  at  the  girls,  studied  the  lace  edge 
'on  her  immense  handkerchief — she  gave  the  matter  her 
undivided  attention.) 

"Oh,  how  stupid  of  me!  Of  course,  madam's  sister 
was  murdered  in  the  September  massacres.  My  God, 
how  terrible  —  and  how  interesting !  Madam,  I  assure 
you  your  position  is  unrivalled.  There  is  no  one  to  ap- 
proach you,  except  perhaps  Madame  de  Tremoille."  She 
spoke  very  rapidly,  with  charming  little  imploring  ges- 
tures. Tears  shone  in  her  sweet  brown  eyes. 

"Madeleine,  you  know  very  well,"  corrected  the  pretti- 
est girl,  almost  angrily,  "that  the  duchess  is  quite  mad. 
Let  me  speak.  Indeed,  madam,  the  doctors  say  she  will 
never  recover.  She  insists  on  sleeping  on  the  bare  boards 
as  she  says  there  are  others  who  require  the  bed  more 


LOVE  87 

than  she  does.  She  is  always  secreting  little  pieces  of 
soap  and  washing  out  her  handkerchiefs  and  stockings. 
Sometimes  she  will  sit  without  saying  a  word  all  day  long ; 
at  other  times  she  laughs,  or  she  cries — not  often;  she 
is  really  very  brave.  She  imagines  she  is  in  prison.  She 
won't  listen  to  reason " 

"How  can  she  when  she  is  mad?"  said  her  sister  re- 
provingly. 

"Dear  madam "  began  Madeleine. 

During  this  lively  dialogue  Madame  de  St.  Innocent 
had  time  to  collect  her  bewildered  thoughts.  She  smiled 
kindly  at  the  young  girls. 

"I  thank  you  very  much  for  your  kind  suggestion," 
she  said  gently.  "I  hope  the  ball  will  be  very  successM, 
but  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  am  obliged  to  refuse." 
(Just  for  one  second  her  voice  faltered.)  "I — I  do  not 
feel  I  could  be  present." 

The  young  ladies  expressed  their  deepest  regret,  curt- 
sied charmingly  to  both  ladies  (Madame  de  Beauharnais 
folded  her  handkerchief  and  inclined  her  head),  and  ran 
lightly  down  the  long  gallery  in  search  of  fresh  "victims." 

The  band  was  playing  a  delicate  air,  a  soft  berceuse, 
probably  to  give  the  heated  dancers  time  to  cool  before 
supper. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  ballroom  stood  a  group  of  men — 
amongst  them  M.  Tallien,  visible  as  a  gaudy  dragon-fly. 
He  was  pleasantly  conscious  of  the  undeniable  effect  he 
was  creating.  His  clothes  were  "immense"  both  as  to 
cut  and  color.  His  white  satin  breeches  fitted  like  a  skin ; 
his  orange  satin  coat  boasted  no  less  than  forty- two  silk 
lapels  of  different  sizes  and  different  shades ;  his  lace  cravat 
would  have  robed  twenty  infants;  his  rings  would  have 
furnished  a  jeweller's  shop — in  short,  after  Madame  Tal- 
lien, he  was  easily  the  biggest  sensation  of  the  evening. 
As  one  wit  had  declared  in  an  open  circle,  "Dress  was  less 
than  nothing  to  the  beautiful  Te*rezia  and  everything  to 
her  husband." 

M.  Tallien  was  Drawing  on  his  white  kid  gloves — human 


88  LOVE 

skins  were  out  of  fashion — and  talking  volubly  to  a  young 
aristocrat. 

The  young  aristocrat,  intoxicated  by  the  night's  rev- 
elry, had  quite  forgotten  that  once — not  so  long  ago — he 
and  M.  Tallien  had  been  avowed  enemies.  He  was  clap- 
ping the  dreaded  man  of  Bordeaux  on  his  shoulder. 

"Bravo!"  he  said.      "Bravo!" 

And  M.  Tallien — always  encouraged  by  admiration — 
opened  his  enormous  mouth  and  laughed  loudly. 

"Hug  your  luck,  my  young  man 

"I  will!" 

"Take  the  pick  of  the  basket!  I  am  your  friend!  I'll 
stand  by  you! " 

The  great  man  winked.  He  did  not  trouble  to  lower 
his  voice,  but  he  came  a  step  nearer  to  the  infatuated 
youth,  very  well  aware  that  they  were  overheard.  He 
stroked  his  marvellous  shirt-front,  decorated  with  bil- 
lows of  antique  Mechlin.  "My  heart  to-night,"  he  cooed, 
"is  as  a  kidney  stewed  in  milk,  tender,  you  know,  soft  and 
tender." 

The  circle  roared.     "Bravo !  Bravo  !" 

On  the  gilded  settee  sat  Madame  de  St.  Innocent  and 
Madame  de  Beauharnais,  the  one  looking  a  little  weary,  the 
other  with  a  dull  red  flush  under  her  paint.  Madame  de 
St.  Innocent's  face  was,  if  anything,  a  little  whiter  than 
before.  She  glanced  round  the  thinning  room — the  guests 
were  going  in  to  supper — as  if  she  was  barely  conscious 
of  her  surroundings.  Maybe  the  softly  executed  berceuse 
recalled  to  her  happier  days  or  a  voice  that  was  dead? 
She  was  smiling  as  she  had  not  smiled  all  that  evening. 
Mrs.  Fanny,  looking  at  her,  felt  an  unaccountable  lump  in 
her  throat,  and  was  unreasonably  annoyed  at  her  weak- 
ness. A  lady  in  society  controls  her  feelings.  .  .  .  Were 
these  monstrous  individuals  (ah,  that  man's  voice!)  actu- 
ally pulling  down  all  their  cherished  ideals?  Could  none 
escape  contamination?  .  .  . 

M.  Barras,  accompanied  by  a  young  gentleman,  bowed 
profoundly  to  the  ladies. 


LOVE  89 

"May  I  have  the  honor,  citoyenne"  said  he,  offering 
his  arm  to  Madame  la  marquise  de  St.  Innocent. 

She  swayed  a  little  as  she  rose.  "I  thank  you,  citoyen" 
Her  voice  was  perfectly  level. 

As  to  Mrs.  Fanny,  she  briskly  regained  her  composure 
and  her  most  bewitching  expression.  She  was  very  par- 
tial to  a  young  man.  She  dangled  her  reticule  and  leaned 
lightly  on  the  arm  of  her  acquaintance,  giving  him  a 
roguish  smile. 

"I  am  quite  hungry,"  she  confided  to  him  in  a  whisper. 
"Yet  I  must  not  be  selfish.  In  case  I  should  forget,  I 
must  rely  on  monsieur's  good  memory  to  remind  me  to 
take  home  something  nice  for  my  neighbor's  little  boy. 
I  am  afraid  I  spoil  him  sadly."  (A  sigih.)  "Agree, 
monsieur,  that  I  have  got  a  kind  heart?" 

"I'll  swear  to  it,  madam." 

"You  flatterer !"  said  Madame  de  Beauharnais,'  tripping 
elegantly  after  her  friend, 


CHAPTER  XI 

A/TADAME  TALLIEN,  long  before  supper  was  an- 
•*•*•*•  nounced,  had  completely  forgotten  her  quarrel  with 
General  Bonaparte.  She  and  Josephine  had  given  up 
their  fruitless  search  for  the  "little  monster,"  after  having 
looked  in  all  likely  and  unlikely  corners.  Evidently  he 
had  gone  home,  or  he  had  locked  himself  into  a  cupboard, 
for  greater  security  against  danger.  Terezia  supposed 
that  even  Bonaparte's  conscience  had  awoken  to  the 
enormity  of  his  offence. 

Madame  Tallien  was  severely  strict  on  all  lapses  of 
etiquette  (however  allowing  herself  a  wide  margin — but 
then  she,  Terezia,  stood  above  the  whole  world.  .  .). 
Her  memory  was  as  shortlived  as  her  anger.  She  was  an 
April  child,  so  she  said — which  seldom  comforted  her  re- 
jected lovers  when  caught  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm.  She 
was  extraordinarily  unreliable,  the  beautiful  Madame  Tal- 
lien. If  she  loved  you  to-day,  very  probably  she  would 
not  look  at  you  to-morrow.  When  directly  attacked  on 
the  subject  she  would  smile:  "My  friends,  make  hay 
while  the  sun  shines,"  she  would  say  with  her  charmingly 
direct  confidence.  .  .  .  They  worked  feverishly,  but  to- 
night, as  it  were,  the  sun  was  always  shining  on  some  new 
point. 

Joseph  had  kept  Terezia  amused.  It  rather  amused  him 
to  watch  her  methods — they  were  so  frankly  pagan.  In 
the  ball-room  partners  flocked  round  her  as  sensitive 
moths  round  a  particularly  attractive  flame.  She  rather 
loved  the  familiar  atmosphere.  She  rather  liked  to  watch 
a  young  man's  "hopeless  passion"  (she  was  quite  con- 
vinced of  its  depth).  To  alleviate  his  hurt  Madame  Tal- 
lien invariably — out  of  her  boundless  "goodness" — treated 

90 


LOVE  91 

him  gently.  When  she  danced  with  the  poor  singed  moth 
she  took  good  care  that  he  burnt  himself  thoroughly.  As 
the  dance  proceeded  she  would  cling  closer  to  her  partner, 
allowing  his  warm  embrace,  inviting,  as  it  were,  the  can- 
dor of  his  warm  glance,  listening  to  the  beating  of  his 
foolish  young  heart.  .  .  .  More  often  than  not,  directly 
the  dance  was  over  she  would  coolly  leave  him  to  collect 
his  scattered  senses,  vanishing  (on  the  arm  of  someone 
else)  from  his  bewildered  sight. 

Someone  has  once  uttered  the  profound  truth,  that  the 
loneliness  of  a  crowd  is  more  oppressive  to  a  single  in- 
dividual, who  for  the  moment  lacks  companionship,  than 
the  wastes  of  a  limitless  desert. 

Without  anchorage,  the  unpopular  hero,  General  Bona- 
parte, kept  wandering  by  himself  through  the  great  rooms 
bf  the  Luxembourg,  pondering  on  many  things  yet  sel- 
dom giving  a  thought  to  his  immediate  vicinity. 

His  admirable  features  were  marred  by  his  half-sullen, 
half-sarcastic  expression,  and  his  eyes,  gazing  into  space 
— did  not  invite  any  friendly  advance.  He  was  left 
rigorously  alone,  yet  not  escaping  some  flattering  com- 
ments from  the  women  and  from  the  men  some  rather 
ill-natured  chaff.  Behind  his  back  they  laughed  at  the 
little  general — his  youth  was  so  pertinently  real,  even 
so  his  thinness  and  his  habitual  and  famous  scowl.  His 
straight-cut  hair  and  his  ungainly  boots  all  came  in  for 
their  share  of  raillery. 

Truth  to  tell,  in  this  hyper-elegant  assembly,  where  the 
right  tone  was  set  by  M.  Tallien's  yellow  satin  coat,  Gen- 
eral Bonaparte  cut  a  poor  enough  figure.  Yet,  strange 
to  say,  the  crowd  did  not  swallow  him  up.  His  person- 
ality— in  spite  of  his  deplorably  shabby  appearance — was 
too  insistent.  Under  the  brilliant  light  shed  by  M.  Barras' 
many  cut-glass  chandeliers  (by  the  way,  all  "appropri- 
ated") he  merely  looked  out  of  focus,  a  fit  target  for 
universal  mirth.  It  is  so  easy  to  be  witty  at  another 
person's  expense.  His  heavy  field  boots  (very  provi- 


92  LOVE 

sionallj  cleaned)  excited,  if  anything,  the  greatest  fun 
of  all. 

One  man  approached  him  on  the  subject — with  rather 
an  insolent  swagger.  "A  thousand  pardons,  citizen  gen- 
eral, but  what  might  you  have  paid  for  them?"  he  asked 
in  all  gravity. 

With  equal  gravity  the  general  replied,  looking  stead- 
ily at  his  interlocutor  (he  never  forgot  a  face),  "Time  will 
show."  And  without  another  word  he  had  walked  off, 
leaving  the  elegant  individual  rather  nonplussed.  What 
the  devil  did  he  mean?  And  what  the  devil  did  Barras  mean 
by  inviting  such  a  savage  to  his  house? 

For  the  most  part,  as  we  have  said,  Bonaparte  was  left 
strictly  alone.  All  dared — at  a  discreet  distance — to 
laugh  at  him,  but  few  cared  to  question  him. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  evening,  or  rather  when  the 
proceedings  were  well  under  way,  he  stood  in  a  doorway 
watching  the  crowded  ballroom.  There  was  something 
rather  melancholy  in  the  attitude  of  this  lonely  student 
of  human  nature,  as,  with  his  arms  crossed  on  his  chest, 
he  leaned  against  the  doorpost  looking  at  the  different 
couples  as  they  swung  past  him. 

Once  he  nodded  and  smiled  affectionately  at  his  friend, 
Captain  Junot,  who  this  evening  had  disgracefully  deserted 
him  for  an  attractive  young  lady.  The  gallant  captain 
was  so  obviously  head  over  ears  in  love  with  Mademoiselle 
Permont  that  Bonaparte  could  only  resign  himself  to  the 
inevitable.  And  here  he  fell  to  musing  on  the  strange 
fellowship  of  love.  Would  he  ever  fall  a  victim  to  honest 
Junot's  complaint?  ...  At  least  Junot  looked  extremely 
happy.  A  shadow  effaced  his  smile. 

He  watched  the  celebrated  Madame  Tallien — and  here 
his  expression  of  contempt  deepened.  Her  provocative 
dress,  her  eternal  smile,  her  everlasting  airs  of  Venus  Vic- 
trix  only  irritated  him. 

She  happened  to  catch  sight  of  him,  and  before  he  could 
realize  her  intention — on  the  arm  of  her  reluctant  part- 


LOVE  93 

ner — she  swayed  up  to  him  and  presented  him  with  her 
hand  and  her  dance-programme. 

"Choose,"  she  said.  "They  are  all  taken,  of  course, 
but  that  does  not  matter." 

"It  would  be  unfair " 

"No,  general;  all  is  fair  in  love  and  war." 

He  bowed.    "May  I  have  number  seven?" 

"Is  that  your  lucky  number?" 

"I  have  no  luck,  madam." 

"What  monstrous  ingratitude!"  She  turned  to  the 
young  man  by  her  side — a  rather  breathless  young  man — 
"Would  you  not  say  that  General  Bonaparte  had  his  fair 
share  of  good  fortune?" 

"It  is  staggering,"  he  said. 

"A  bientot,  mon  general."  And  away  she  fluttered, 
giving  the  taciturn  officer  a  parting  smile.  .  .  .  After  all, 
in  spite  of  his  atrocious  manners,  he  was  only  a  man.  He 
was  bound  sooner  or  later  to  worship  her.  .  .  .  Such  an 
obstinate  case  was  really  rather  interesting. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  beloved?" 

She  looked  up  dreamily,  pressing  herself  closer  to  her 
happy  partner's  breast.  "Of  love,"  she  whispered.  "I 
would  like  to  dance  for  ever,  just  you  and  I  together. 
Isn't  it  divine?" 

And  he  believed  her.  And  his  eyes  grew  a  shade  more 
misty,  and  his  breath  came  a  shade  faster,  and  he  forgot 
to  envy  General  Bonaparte. 

The  general  wandered  away  presently.  He  walked 
through  the  long  gallery  and  bowed  to  Mrs.  Fanny.  He 
followed  the  throng  into  the  refreshment-room  and  mod- 
estly asked  the  attendant  for  a  glass  of  lemonade  and  a 
biscuit.  He  drank  the  lemonade  and  ate  the  biscuit  with 
slow  enjoyment. 

All  around  him  people  were  laughing  and  talking.  There 
was  an  overpowering  sense  of  ease  and  opulence  in  the 
crowded  room.  The  long  white  tables  were  elegantly 
spread  with  all  kinds  of  fanciful  dishes.  The  immense 


94  LOVE 

floor  was  covered  with  a  thick-pile  carpet.  The  walls  were 
richly  decorated.  The  ceiling  frescoed,  finished  with  a 
heavy  white  cornice  incrusted  in  gilding.  In  different  cor- 
ners of  the  room  stood  groups  of  plants  and  here  and 
there  seats  were  at  the  disposal  of  the  guests.  On  the 
buffet  shone  some  rare  pieces  of  plate,  including  two  solid 
gold  urns.  The  table  service  was  of  purest  china  embossed 
with  B arras'  coronet  and  monogram  in  relief. 

How  quickly  the  tide  turns!  Last  year  that  service 
would  have  been  quite  superfluous. 

General  Bonaparte  turned  his  back  on  the  room, 
slipped  into  a  window  embrasure  and  looked  down  on  the 
street  below. 

The  snow  gave  a  certain  elusive  fairness  to  the  city. 
In  the  dark  sky  a  lew  pale  stars  were  visible,  also  the  silver 
crescent  of  a  new  moon.  He  looked  quickly  down  again — 
our  general  was  highly  superstitious.  The  new  moon  led 
his  thoughts  some  leagues  from  Paris — yet  still  in  the 
homeland;  he  gazed,  as  it  were,  along  its  frozen  frontier. 
The  bitter  frost  had  gripped  the  whole  countryside.  In 
Marseilles,  and  further  along  the  coast,  towards  Italy,  the 
soldiers  of  France  were  fighting  a  hard-pitched  battle 
against  cold,  privation — and  inaction.  .  .  .  The  cursed 
unfairness  of  it  all!  Here  was  he,  and  a  handful  of  his 
fellow-beings,  roundly  feasting — while  good  men  and  true 
men  had  to  make  the  best  of  a  fireless,  often  enough  a 
breadless  camp — singing  their  favorite  songs,  and  repeat- 
ing their  favorite  jests — just  to  keep  up  their  courage — 
staring  at  their  frostbitten  toes,  and  hoping  that  the  regu- 
lation supply  of  boots  would  soon  arrive.  It  was  awkward 
exercising  barefooted.  .  .  . 

Through  the  tall  iron  gratings  surrounding  the  palace 
yard,  and  more  especially  at  the  very  imposing  entrance 
gates — surmounted  on  either  side  by  two  flaring  lamps  set 
high  and  forming  pools  of  light  on  the  snow,  a  number 
of  the  poorer  citizens  of  Paris  had  gathered,  watching 
the  brilliant  windows  of  the  palace,  and  forming  their 
own  ideas  of  the  rich  man  enjoying  himself.  Some  of 


LOVE  95 

these  pictures  were,  no  doubt,  very  fantastic,  and  others 
merely  pathetic.  Joy  is  such  a  very  personal  thing.  Shiv- 
ering, hungry,  ragged,  these  wretched  outcasts  kept  mov- 
ing about,  yet  always  returning  to  the  best  point  of 
vantage. 

General  Bonaparte  could  not  discern  their  faces.  In 
that  shadow  world  below,  the  cold  night  hid  her  secrets 
(and  her  limitless  forces).  .  .  .  He  could  not  distinguish 
these  shivering  creatures.  But  he  could  imagine  them. 
He  did  not  lack  imagination. 

A  smiling  woman,  sitting  on  a  sofa,  looked  up  at  him. 
(In  after  days  she  remembered  the  incident.)  She  was 
a  pretty,  graceful  creature  dressed  in  purest  white  satin 
— her  little  white  satin  sandals  laced  with  pale-blue  rib- 
bons, across  lier  slender  ankles. 

"He  has  got  a  good  nose,"  she  observed. 

"Not  a  bad  mouth,  either,"  returned  her  companion 
languidly. 

"But  isn't  he  thin!" 

General  Bonaparte,  also  without  giving  the  matter  the 
least  attention,  met  the  sympathetic  glance  of  the  lady  in 
white.  They  looked  at  each  other  just  as  people  do  glance 
at  each  other  in  a  crowd  without  observation.  For  the 
fraction  of  a  second  he  stood  still.  His  big,  mournful 
eyes,  with  their  restless,  dissatisfied  expression,  searched 
her  face.  She  was  sitting  in  partial  shadow — the  light 
was  very  becoming.  She  looked  charming,  the  slender  lady 
in  white.  With  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  his  thin  face  he 
passed  on. 

Madame  Josephine  de  Beauharnais  leaned  forward,  look- 
ing after  his  retreating  figure.  "He  has  got  fascinating 
eyes,"  she  said. 

"Has  he?  I  did  not  notice,"  answered  her  companion, 
helping  herself  to  a  coffee  eclair. 

In  the  outer  room  General  Bonaparte  paused  irresolute. 
Should  he  go  to  the  left  or  to  the  right?  It  really  did  not 
matter  two  straws.  He  smiled  very  bitterly.  It  was  a 


96  LOVE 

queer  world.  Why  should  he  be  superfluous?  There  was 
Junot — dear,  foolish  Junot — having  the  time  of  his  life, 
only  eyes  and  ears  for  a  tolerably  pretty  girl.  General 
Bonaparte  stood  still  to  speculate  on  love. 

Almost  as  if  in  answer  to  his  thoughts,  M.  Barras 
accosted  him  with  rousing  good  cheer. 

"How  are  you,  general?  Having  a  good  time?" 
Barras  happened  to  be  alone  and  evidently  in  an  exceed- 
ingly pleasant  frame  of  mind.  His  face  was  flushed;  his 
eyes  glittered;  and  he  held  himself  with  easy  distinction. 
Maybe  the  music,  the  wine  and  the  -women,  each — or  col- 
lectively— were  responsible  for  his  breezy  optimism. 

He  tapped  the  general  in  an  affectionate  manner  on  his 
thin  shoulder  and  gave  him  a  friendly  piece  of  advice. 
"Get  married,"  he  said. 

Bonaparte  looked  at  his  host  a  little  vaguely.  M.  Bar- 
ras was  uncomfortably  struck  by  the  young  man's  extreme 
pallor.  And  just  now  any  discomfort  was  excessively 
unpleasant  to  him. 

"You  ought  to  strengthen  your  position,"  he  said.  "A 
sensible  match  makes  all  the  difference  to  a  young  man's 
prospects — an  ambitious  young  man,  bien  entend/u*.  I 
honor  you,  general,  for  your  determined  purpose."  He 
waved  his  hand.  "There  is  choice  enough  here  to-night 
to  suit  any  taste."  (He  came  a  step  nearer.)  "What 
do  you  say  to  Madame  Tallien?"  (He  laughed.)  "7"ja, 
I  am  not  proposing  her — at  least,  not  as  a  wife!  Isn't 
she  simply  a  wonder?  What  convincing  beauty!" 

Barras  had  (with  slight  variations)  made  the  same 
remark  countless  times  that  evening.  You  see,  it  was  his 
little  scheme  of  salvation.  He  thought  by  soundly  admir- 
ing Madame  Tallien  he  could  keep  out  of  her  toils.  You 
don't — for  some  unknown  reason — sing  the  praises  of  the 
woman  (or  the  man)  you  happen  to  be  seriously  interested 
in.  That  is  your  little  secret — your  precious  little  secret. 
.  .  .  Barras  was  greatly  comforted  by  his  cunning.  .  .  . 
Anyone  was  at  liberty  to  express  his  opinion  on  Madame 
Tallien.  He  looked  over  Bonaparte's  shoulder  and  fidgeted 


LOVE  97 

with  his  handsome  watch-chain.  He  was  feeling  bewildered, 
attracted.  Yet,  considering  him  as  a  sensitive  moth  (we 
must  allow),  he  was  a  superlatively  precautious  one. 

"Ah,  I  see  her!  Good-bye,  so  long!"  M.  Barras'  sharp 
eyes  had  noticed  in  his  immediate  vicinity  (nothing  what- 
soever to  do  with  the  vision  beyond)  two  charming  young 
girls  dressed  alike  in  purest  white  satin,  each  with  a  red 
camellia  tucked  into  their  high  blue  sashes. 

"Let  me  introduce  you,"  said  M.  Barras,  genially,  sweep- 
ing, as  it  were,  the  trio  with  his  pleasant,  almost  fatherly 
smile. 

The  general  acknowledged  the  introduction  with  a  deep 
bow.  And  away  went  M.  Barras — alas,  steadily  nearing 
the  perilous  zone.  The  music,  the  wine,  the  women  (we 
have  said  it  before)  had  clearly  mounted  to  his  head. 

He  made  a  straight  bee-line  for  a  lady  dressed  in  corn- 
colored  chiffon,  sitting,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  quite 
alone.  The  miserable  youth  at  her  side  was  no  hindrance 
whatever  to  their  desire. 

"Our  dance?"  said  M.  Barras.     (The  youth  shivered.) 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  Tallien,  with  her  unmistakable 
glance. 

And  they  went  away  together,  leaving  the  miserable 
youth  to  his  own  reflections. 

"Citizen  general,"  said  the  prettiest  girl,  "do  you  like 
dancing?" 

"Citoyenne,  I  am  a  very  bad  dancer,  but  if  I  might  have 
the  honor  of  this  waltz  I  shall  be  very  grateful." 

She  giggled.     "Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that!" 

"I  am  sorry."  And  he  meant  it.  He  was  struck  by 
her  freshness,  her  innocence,  her  simplicity.  Without 
doubt  mademoiselle  found  life  very  attractive.  He  looked 
around  at  the  other  young  lady.  How  exactly  alike  they 
were! 

"And  you,  mademoiselle,  will  you  take  pity  on  a  poor 
soldier?" 

She  curtsied.     "I  shall  be  charmed,"  she  said  demurely. 


98  LOVE 

"M.  le  general,  do  let  me  explain."  And  off  they  went 
in  a  perfectly  practiced  duet,  until  the  general  almost 
swore  he  was  a  "victim." 

"Don't  you  think  it  is  a  grand  idea?" 

"I  cannot  conceive  a  better  one." 

"M.  Tallien  has  promised  to  make  the  first  speech  of 
the  evening " 

"In  honor  of  the  dead,"  said  Mademoiselle  Madeleine. 

"I  did  not  know  he  had  lost " 

"No  more  he  has.  You  are  perfectly  right,  monsieur. 
But  of  course  he  must  be  admitted.  He  is  our  hero !  He 
has  saved  us  all!" 

"What  superb  courage "  said  Bonaparte. 

"Think  of  it!"  said  the  prettiest  girl. 

"And  you  have  lost  no  one,  monsieur?"  asked  her  sister, 
sadly. 

"No  one,  mademoiselle." 

"I  am  so  sorry." 

Then  they  all  three  laughed  together — the  absurd  side 
of  the  question  struck  them  forcibly.  It  was  really  a 
very  difficult  matter  to  explain. 

The  prettiest  girl  tapped  a  little  slip  of  paper  she  held 
in  her  hands.  "We  have  got  such  a  long  list  of  names," 
she  declared.  "The  beautiful  Madame  Tallien  is  a 
patroness * 

"Is  she  a  victim?"  asked  Bonaparte  politely. 

"Oh,  yes!* 

"And1  Madame  de  $eauharnais  is  coming.  Do  you  know 
her?  She  is  a  widow,  and  is  perfectly  charming." 

"No,  mademoiselle.     I  have  not  the  honor." 

They  looked  at  him  with  just  a  slightly  patronizing  air. 
Poor  young  man,  he  evidently  knew  very  few  people. 

"The  tickets  cost  five  francs  each.  It  is  for  a  good 
cause,  monsieur.  .  .  ." 

"In  silver,"  seconded  the  other. 

"Won't  the  poor  be  delighted!" 

"Won't  they  be  delighted,  monsieur !"  They  echoed  each 
other  with  absolute  unconsciousness. 


LOVE  99 

And  their  eyes  shone  in  glad  anticipation.  And  the 
little  general's  eyes  shone  in  response.  For  the  first  time 
that  evening  he  realized  the  music — and,  perhaps,  his  own 
youth.  "We  must  not  miss  this,"  he  said  almost  pas- 
sionately. 

Providentially  some  one  claimed  the  attention  of  one 
young  lady.  He  offered  his  arm  to  the  remaining  one  and 
hurried  her  rather  more  quickly  than  strict  decorum  per- 
mitted into  the  ballroom. 

He  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  music  or  to  the 
time,  but  he  danced  with  tremendous  vigor.  He  kept 
whirling  her  up  and  down  the  great  room,  his  tall  boots 
clattering,  his  long  coat  flying,  his  long  hair  interfering 
perpetually  with  his  eyesight.  Nothing  interfered  with 
his  enjoyment.  They  both  enjoyed  themselves — even  their 
occasional  misdirected  efforts.  ("It  is  not  my  fault,"  he 
said,  as  they  bumped  into  M.  Barras,  folding  the  beautiful 
Madame  Tallien  in  his  warm  embrace.  They  were  not 
dancing  wildly,  those  two,  but  slowly,  gently — as  if  each 
reluctant  step  was  to  be  their  last.) 

The  general  did  not  look  at  them.  They  did  not  interest 
him  in  the  least.  Nor  did  he  notice  a  pretty  little  lady  in 
white  (with  blue  ribbons  to  her  sandals)  standing  up  by 
the  wall  with  a  very  mutinous  expression  on  her  charming 
face.  She  was  talking  to  her  partner  and  staring  at 
M.  Barras. 

When  the  music  finished,  General  Bonaparte  led  the 
young  girl  to  a  sofa,  took  hold  of  her  fan  and  tried  to 
fan  her.  He  did  it  a  little  clumsily. 

"During  these  last  two  or  three  years,  where  have  you 
been  hiding,  mademoiselle?" 

"Safe  in  the  country,  monsieur.  For  the  matter  of  that, 
we  have  always  lived  in  the  country." 

"This  is  your  first  season?" 

She  nodded.  "My  first  big  ball.  Don't  you  think  it  is 
all  very  wonderful?"  She  looked  round  her  with  a  half- 
puzzled  expression  at  the  gay  scene. 


100  LOVE 

"Yes,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  his  shining  eyes  and 
his  deferential  though  slightly  awkward  manner. 

"Mamma  is  not  quite  papa's  equal,  in  birth  .  .  .  she 
is  the  doctor's  daughter,  you  know.  Grandmamma  has 
a  lovely  old  house  just  outside  our  village,  and  grandpapa 
is  quite  rich,  and  we  had  on  the  whole  a  lovely  time.  It 
seems  rather  wicked  to  say  so.  But  it  is  a  fact.  I  adore 
the  country.  And  so  does  Madeleine." 

"Is  your  mother  here  to-night?" 

"Oh,  yes!  She  is  quite  different.  She  loves  society. 
It  is  mamma  who  is  getting  up  the  ball,  you  know.  Mamma 
has  so  much  energy."  ,(She  laughed  gaily.)  "She  is  very 
determined 5? 

"I  can  imagine  it,  mademoiselle." 

"I  was  dancing  with  M.  Tallien.  Was  it  not  kind  of 
him  to  ask  me?  I  was  feeling  quite  proud  of  myself — * 
and  Madeleine  was  just  a  tiny  bit  jealous  (he  asked  her, 
afterwards).  And  he  said  all  kinds  of  flattering  things — 
rather  silly  things  on  the  whole.  At  least  I  did  not  under- 
stand very  much " 

"I  am  glad." 

"Why  should  you  be  glad,  when  I  tell  you  I  am  stupid?" 

"You  are  safer  in  the  country,  mademoiselle." 

"There  is  no  danger,  now!"  She  spoke  with  utmost 
assurance. 

"That  is  true." 

Her  bright  eyes  clouded.  "It  was  awful  at  the  time. 
You  can  imagine  our  feelings  when  we  heard  one  report 
more  terrible  than  the  other.  Grandmamma  would  not  let 
us  talk  about  public  affairs.  And  mamma  was  away  in 
England.  She  said  we  were  safer  at  home.  I  am  so 
thankful  it  is  all  over." 

He  did  not  answer.  She  paused.  "Yes,"  she  said. 
"Where  was  I?  I  was  telling  you  about  M.  Tallien. 
Mamma  did  not  like  me  dancing  with  him.  'Come  away/ 
she  said  sharply.  'Don't  do  if  again.'  'Why  not?'  I 
asked.  Mamma  thought  a  moment.  'I  don't  like  you 


LOVF  101 

dancing  with  married  men,'  she  explained.  .  .  .  Are  you 
married,  monsieur?" 

"No,  mademoiselle." 

"I  am  so  glad.  Then  you  are  all  right.  I  wish  I  was 
a  little  older.  At  times  I  feel  I  know  nothing  at  all. 
Are  you  clever?" 

He  shook  his  head.      "I  have  studied,   mademoiselle." 

"So  have  I.  I  got  a  prize  for  history  at  the  convent 
school.  Such  a  pretty  walk  from  grandmamma's  hquse — 
through  the  orchards  and  then  across  two  fields  and  down 
the  village  street.  We  were  day-boarders." 

"That  is  very  interesting.  .  .  .  What  did  Mademoiselle 
Madeleine  get?" 

She  moved  very  slightly.  She  doubted  if  the  general  was 
attending  to  her  best  conversational  efforts.  He  was 
looking  away  into  the  distance  .  .  .  looking.  She  fol- 
lowed his  glance.  He  was  staring  at  nothing  at  all !  The 
room  was  practically  empty. 

"My  sister,  monsieur  le  general,  is  also  interested  in 
history,"  she  explained  with  cold  politeness.  Then  her 
native  charm  took  the  upper  hand  of  her  momentary 
hauteur.  "But  I  am  only  talking  of  my  own  affairs,"  she 
said.  She  thought  a  moment.  "Have  you  got  any  broth- 
ers and  sisters?" 

"Several." 

"That  is  nice.     Are  they  also  clever?" 

"I  never  said  I  was  clever." 

"Someone   told   me " 

"Never  listen   to   idle   gossip." 

"It  was  not  idle.     Besides,  you  don't  look  stupid." 

"It  is  kind  of  you  to  say  so." 

"Have  you  got  a  good  memory?" 

"An  excellent  memory." 

"That  is  my  weak  point " 

"Otherwise  you  would  have  had  more  prizes.  Very 
true,  mademoiselle.  Without  memory  the  greatest  genius 
on  earth  is  handicapped  if  not  lost." 

"Is  that  so?" 


102  LOVE 

He  took  up  the  little  fan  lying  on  her  lap,  and  looked 
at  it  carefully.  "When  we  look  back " 

"I  like  looking  forward.  For  weeks  my  sister  and  I 
have  talked  of  nothing  else  but  this  ball." 

"Have  you  realized  your  expectations?"  He  glanced 
at  her,  waiting  her  reply  anxiously. 

"Yes — of  course."     She  hesitated. 

"Not  entirely!  We  hope  too  much.  We  mean  too 
much.  Sooner  or  later  the  crash  will  come.  .  .  .  Made- 
moiselle, forgive  me." 

"It  doesn't  matter."  (She  looked  a  little  woebegone.) 
They  both  studied  the  fragments  of  the  broken  fan. 

"It  is  my  ill-luck,"  he  said.    "All  I  do  ends  in  disaster." 

"This  is  such  a  small  matter.  I  daresay  it  can  be 
mended,"  she  returned  politely. 

He  stared  a  little  vaguely  at  her,  sweeping  back  his  long 
hair  from  his  forehead.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "the  matter  is  of 
no  consequence."  Then  he  smiled.  "Frankly,  made- 
moiselle, I  don't  like  a  patched-up  affair.  All  or  nothing. 
There  you  have  my  ambition  in  a  nutshell." 

"You  ask  too  much,"  she  said  timidly. 

He  pocketed  the  fan.  "I  am  going  to  keep  this  and 
send  you  another  in  exchange.  You  will  allow  me  that 
privilege?  It  is  the  first  favor  I  have  asked  of  a  lady.'* 

"I  hardly  like "  she  began,  involuntarily  looking  at 

his  shabby  uniform. 

"I  have  so  few  pleasures." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you  ever  so  much."  She  looked 
half  shyly  into  his  eyes.  "Do  you  ever  consider  the  fu- 
ture, monsieur?  Your  own  future,  I  mean,  not  history." 

"Sometimes,   mademoiselle,   and   always    together." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"It  is  quite  simple." 

"I  don't  quite  understand.  How"  changeable  you  are! 
A  moment  ago  you  looked  as  bright  and  as  happy  as 
possible.  You  have  no  business  to  look  sad." 

"On  the  whole  I  have  not.     You  are  quite  right." 

He  leaned  eagerly  forward.  .  .  .  "Look  at  me,  made- 


LOVE  103 

moiselle.  Your  eyes  are  as  pools  of  light,  shining,  clear 
pools  searched  by  the  morning  sun.  You  give  me  con- 
fidence." 

She  laughed  gaily.  "You  must  not  pay  me  compli- 
ments," she  said. 

"It  is  not  a  compliment,  mademoiselle.  I  know  nothing 
about  them." 

"Very  well,"  she  answered,  sitting  demurely  back.  "Now 
tell  me  all  about  yourself."  She  spoke  very  placidly,  with 
just  a  tiny,  encouraging  smile.  "I  want  to  help  you 
if  I  can.  Grandmamma  says  sympathy  is  of  the  greatest 
value.  I  have  nothing  else  to  offer  you." 

"I  would  like  to  meet  your  grandmother." 

"She  is  dear,  though  she  is  very  strict.  She  is  always 
busy  herself.  She  says  work  prevents  more  evil  in  this 
world  than  anything  else." 

"Yes?" 

"Often  on  winter  evenings — just  like  to-night,  only  such 
a  difference ! — she  will  sit  upright  in  her  own  chair  by  the 
fire — she  keeps  famous  fires.  I  love  a  bright  fire,  don't 
you?"  (He  sat  immovable.)  — "speaking  of  all  kinds 
of  things.  She  has  her  fancies,  grandmamma.  She  will 
tell  us  fairy  stories  and  stories  out  of  life.  And  she 
will  always  end  up  with  a  comfortable  reflection.  Last 
winter  was  a  very  sad  one  for  us.  Mamma  was  in  England, 
and  dear  papa " 

"Go  on,  mademoiselle."    His  voice  was  a  mere  whisper. 

"  'Out  of  darkness  will  come  a  bright  light,'  said  grand- 
mamma. 'All  this  is  only  God's  inscrutable  justice. 
France  will  clear  herself.  Someone '  " 

"Yes,  mademoiselle  ?" 

She  had  drifted  away  from  the  main  question.  Like  a 
little  child,  tired  of  its  plaything,  she  leaned  her  rosy 
cheek — curved  just  as  a  baby's — on  her  hand.  "Life  is 
difficult  to  understand,"  she  sighed.  "We  must  all  try  to 
do  our  best.  Isn't  that  it,  monsieur?" 

The  band  struck  up  a  spirited  galop.  The  music  rolled 
down  the  long  gallery.  The  dancers  flocked  back  into 


104  LOVE 

the  ball-room.    And  Mademoiselle  Madeleine's  sister  quite 
forgot  to  feel  sad. 

"How  I  love  that  tune!"  she  said.  "Do  look  at  that 
lady,  she  is  quite  too  wonderful  for  words.  No,  no,  that 
one  to  the  right.  Oh,  she  has  gone!  You  have  lost  your 
chance,  monsieur."  She  shook  her  curls  and  laughed  at 
him. 

He  caught  her  hand.  "Listen!"  there  was  a  note  of 
,  triumph  in  his  voice,  and  dogged  determination.    "For  one 
week  I  have  slept  exactly  four  hours  all  told." 

She  looked  very  discouragingly.  "It  is  nothing  to  be 
proud  of,"  she  said  severely. 

"I  have  been  just  as  busy  as  your  grandmother " 

"You  will  ruin  your  health " 

"I  am  very  strong." 

"You  don't  look  it." 

"That  is  nothing,  mademoiselle.     I  can  prove  it." 

"Prove  what?"  she  spoke  impatiently. 

"That  I  have  not  wasted  my  time.  Like  you,  made- 
moiselle, I  am  interested  in  history.  And  I  study.  It  is 
my  amusement.  Otherwise  my  life  just  at  present  is  not 
very  enviable.  It  is  only  a  passing  phase.  I  can  afford 
to  wait " 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  politely,  wondering  if  her 
cousin  would  find  her.  She  was  engaged  to  her  cousin 
for  this  dance.  She  was  very  young,  was  Mademoiselle 
Madeleine's  sister.  And  Bonaparte  (with  a  slight  gasp) 
.recognized  her  youth  and  bowed  before  it.  He  was  not 
angry  with  her,  nor  did  he  envy  her,  but  her  indifference 
filled  him  with  disappointment.  He  was  hungry  for  human 
sympathy — this  taciturn,  lonely  soldier.  Suddenly  the 
thought  of  an  old  fairy  story  comforted  him.  Any  human 
interference  invariably  destroyed  the  picture.  All  the 
fairies  and  all  their  surroundings — beautiful  as  God's 
springtide — were  fashioned  of  mist.  A  human  breath 
destroyed  the  illusion.  He  looked  away  and  turned  the 
key  on  his  own  heart. 

"There  is  mamma,"  she  cried  excitedly. 


LOVE  105 

Mamma  was  leaning  on  M.  Tallien's  arm,  a  tall,  hand- 
some woman,  with  a  cold  face,  ridiculously  dressed.  She 
did  not  in  the  least  resemble  her  daughters. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  seen  her,"  said  Napoleon,  rising 
ceremoniously. 

His  little  partner's  eyes  shone  like  twin  stars.  She  had 
detected  her  cousin,  coming  leisurely  forward.  She  nodded 
and  smiled  at  him. 

"And  your  father,  mademoiselle?  I  hope  one  day  to 
have  the  pleasure " 

For  one  second  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Don't  you 
know?"  she  said  sadly,  rising  and  facing  General  Bona- 
parte. "Papa  was  a  victim.  That  is  why  mamma  is 
getting  up  the  ball." 


CHAPTER  XII 

HE  did  not  even  look  after  her  as  she  disappeared  in 
the  crowd.  He  stood  rather  awkwardly  stock-still 
in  the  middle  of  the  gallery,  and  people  jostled  him,  giving 
him  a  half-pitying,  half-amused  stare.  After  all,  what 
could  you  expect?  A  rough-and-ready  soldier  may  no 
doubt  shine  admirably  in  his  own  field  of  activity  (horrid 
things,  battles,  you  know),  but  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  ask  the  same  individual  to  successfully  grace  society. 
He  is  out  of  the  social  picture.  No,  really,  it  was  not 
only  in  this  case  a  matter  of  clothes,  wrong  clothes  and 
an  abrupt  manner  which  struck  a  jarring  note,  but  the 
fellow's  whole  personality  was  at  fault.  He  had  the  con- 
summate conceit  (a  sober  fact)  to  look  above  the  heads 
of  his  superiors.  He  gave  himself  airs — if  you  please! 
On  the  strength  of  what?  His  military  skill?  Possibly. 
He  had  managed  to  turn  out  the  English  from  Toulon  and 
he  was  very  young — his  solitary  merit — his  youth  gave 
him  a  certain  status  in  the  public  eye.  A  general  at 
twenty-four  and  all  that,  you  know,  and  yet — his  con- 
founded insolence!  that  was  no  valid  excuse  for  jumping 
down  a  fellow's  throat!  The  young  bloods,  brandishing 
their  gold-headed  canes,  were  very  certain  on  this  point. 

So  you  see,  the  general,  in  spite  of  his  shyness  and 
awkwardness,  managed  to  give  offense.  What  we  don't 
understand  as  a  rule  angers  us.  There  is  a  streak  of 
paltriness  in  human  nature — and  it  is  quite  indelible.  Just 
as  fast  a  color  as  human  curiosity. 

Almost  more  apparent  than  Bonaparte's  studied  "inso- 
lence" was  M.  Tallien's  comical  dislike  of  the  little  officer. 
The  young  bloods  noticed  the  expression  in  Mr.  Yellow 
Coat's  rather  protruding  eyes  and  very  protruding  lips 

106 


LOVE  107 

as  he  took  the  measure  of  a  certain  uniform  and  its  owner. 
If  ever  a  man's  doom  shone  certain  as  taxes,  Bonaparte 
— poor  little  fellow — stood  in  a  tight  place.  Tallien  would 
snuff  him  out — anyhow,  he  would  do  his  bounden  best. 
There  are  always  two  sides  to  every  question.  The  gen- 
eral's partisans  considered  Tallien  a  spent  value.  He 
was  of  no  more  account,  they  said,  than  last  year's  hail- 
storm. He,  Tallien,  had  had  his  day.  He  could  never 
retrieve  his  fortunes.  There  were  black  facts — look  you 
— against  him,  whereas  Bonaparte's  slate  was  clean — 
except  for  a  good  mark  or  two.  Why,  you  could  not  in 
any  manner  compare  the  two !  The  general  was  so  obvi- 
ously gifted.  He  was  clever  as  blazes.  You  need  not 
look  further  than  his  eyes  to  see  that.  He  had  the  right 
temperament  and  a  fund  of  cool  calculation,  hidden  well 
out  of  sight.  He  was  born  to  succeed,  they  said.  The 
friends  of  Bonaparte  wasted  a  good  many  warm  words 
over  their  man. 

Yet  in  spite  of  this  backwater  flow  of  confidence,  the 
odds  stood  fairly  even  between  the  gentlemen. 

To-night  M.  Tallien  shone  in  the  full  effulgence  of  popu- 
larity. Never  had  he — socially  speaking — appeared  to 
greater  advantage.  Never  had  he  laughed  louder  or  spoken 
to  better  purpose.  He  was  the  cynosure  of  admiring  eyes 
— the  object  of  rare  attention.  Wherever  he  went  he  was 
followed  by  his  little  special  coterie  of  friends,  very  consid- 
erably swollen  by  chance  individuals,  people  who  did  not 
know  him  intimately,  but  who  none  the  less-  were  flattered 
by  his  attention.  Tallien  had  a  kind  word  for  everyone. 
He  made  no  distinction  of  person  or,  if  anything,  he  may 
have  leaned  towards  the  aristocrats.  He  wanted  to  show 
(dear  fellow)  that  there  was  no  evil  blood  between  them. 
Man  as  man — blue  or  red — they  were  just  honest  friends 
—eh? 

M.  Tallien  had  but  to  wink  his  eye  to  attract  the  crowd. 
Much  as  a  popular  comedian  has  but  to  cross  one  foot 
over  the  other  to  raise  almost  hysterical  mirth. 


108  LOVE 

Stay,  now,  when  we  think  matters  over  was  there  not  a 
trifle  (and  a  bit  over)  of  nervous  excitement  in  M.  Tal- 
lien's  genial  manner?  He  was  not  drunk — oh,  no,  he  was 
pretty  careful  in  some  things — but  his  jokes  were  a  bit 
too  vivid — he  laid  the  paint  on  with  absolutely  no  taste 
nor  any  regard  to  economy.  Also  he  had  a  slightly 
monotonous  touch.  He  either  forgot  what  he  had  just 
been  saying  or  he  considered  his  words  good  enough  to 
bear  repetition.  In  any  case  he  repeated  himself  to  such 
an  extent  that  his  faithful  adherents  could  easily  have 
prompted  him,  when  (as  it  happens  once  or  twice)  his 
witticisms  lacked  fire.  Of  course,  being  tactful  gentle- 
men— speculating  on  promotion — they  did  nothing  of  the 
kind.  They  only  laughed  the  louder  when  the  story,  as 
it  were,  lacked  its  tail.  Probably  something  had  dis- 
tracted M.  Tallien's  memory.  He  was  easily  upset.  Maybe 
a  casual  glance  from  a  rank  outsider  had  disturbed  his 
imagination.  Or  some  merely  superstitious  trouble.  The 
jangle  of  a  plate  as  it  fell  on  the  ground;  the  young 
moon  meekly  meeting  his  rather  bloodshot  eye  through 
a  pane  of  burnished  glass ;  the  prick  of  an  ancient  wound; 
the  sound  of  a  voice  remarkedly  like  a  voice  which  was 
dead.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  heredity.  And  it  is  con- 
fusing, to  say  the  least  of  it,  to  unexpectedly  meet  a  man's 
son  who,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  might  stand  for 
his  own  dead  father.  Little  things  like  that  can  waken 
a  chain  of  recollection — and  they  say  a  guilty  conscience 
never  sleeps.  There  in  a  nutshell  we  can  account  for 
Tallien's  loud  laugh  and  magnificent  peacock  strut.  He 
was  never  at  his  ease,  any  more  than  a  person  suffering 
from  a  pernicious  rash.  In  the  dead  quiet  of  the  night, 
away  from  all  this  glittering  world,  unattended  by  obse- 
quious time-servers  (he  never  had  a  friend),  the  irritation 
was,  if  anything,  more  acutely  felt.  His  whole  body 
fretted.  M.  Tallien's  soul,  heart,  mind — call  it  what  you 
will — was  such  a  small  part  of  his  anatomy  that  it  hardly 
counts. 


LOVE  109 

Yes,  he  was  decidedly  a  nervous  creature.  On  ordinary 
occasions  his  city  of  refuge — in  society — was  the  shadow 
of  his  wife's  brilliancy.  If  he  was  anywhere  near  her  he 
gained  self-confidence.  Where  he  failed  she  would  surely 
pull  him  through.  She  had  superb  impudence,  Terezia! 
Also  she  was  the  fashion.  Also  he  was  her  husband.  Glory 
by  reflection  is  cold  comfort,  but  it  is  better  than  nothing 
at  all.  In  times  of  doubt  he  would  manoeuvre  to  be  near 
the  light.  To  save  herself  Terezia  often  enough  adroitly 
saved  Tallien.  Once  over  a  bit  of  stiff  ground — why,  it 
may  all  be  as  easy  going  as  a  rocking-chair!  Outwardly 
he  was  full  of  confidence,  this  big,  flashy  fellow.  And,  if 
beneath  his  clothes  his  skin  pricked — the  devil,  whose  affair 
was  it  but  his  own? 

To-night  he  felt  he  could  do  without  Terezia,  and  con- 
sequently he  enjoyed  himself  immensely.  The  assiduous 
flattery  of  the  men,  and  the  sight  of  the  women  giving, 
as  it  were,  a  free  rein  to  prejudice,  warmed  his  big  heart. 

M.  Joseph  might  be  responsible  for  the  supper,  the 
incidental  details  of  a  successful  party,  but  he,  Tallien, 
had  made  the  whole  a  possibility.  He  stood  sponsor  for 
the  spirit  of  the  entertainment — it  was  he  who  had  brought 
about  this  truly  enjoyable  evening.  Here  they  were  gath- 
ered together — friend  and  foe — as  one  happy,  reunited 
family,  romping  and  dancing  without  a  care  in  the  world 
— "And  was  it  not  sweet  and  natural?"  asked  M.  Tallien, 
presiding  at  his  end  of  the  supper-table. 

All  the  evening  his  yellow  coat  had  formed  the  centre 
of  attraction.  He  was  an  indefatigable  dancer,  and 
between  the  dances  (as  we  have  seen)  he  did  not  disdain 
friendly  conversation  with  anyone  bold  enough  to  con- 
verse with  him.  He,  figuratively  speaking,  patted  all  his 
fellow-guests  on  the  back — by  preference  the  ladies.  On 
occasions  he  stepped  over  the  narrow  bridge  of  decorum. 
But  what  of  that?  Far  more  unpleasant  than  his  vul- 
garity to  some  sensitive  women  was  M.  Tallien's  unmis- 
takable perfume.  If  you  remember,  he  liberally  indulged 
in  carnation  scent  of  quadruple  extract.  At  close  quarters 


110  LOVE 

a  very  delicate  person  felt  faint.     Everyone  does  not  like 
carnation  scent. 

The  ball  was  at  its  loudest  height.  Such  screaming, 
such  caperings,  such  ear-piercing  yells  must  surely  have 
annoyed  the  august  ghosts  of  the  royal  departed,  who,  a 
short  hundred  years  ago,  had  entertained  with  solemn 
dignity  within  these  very  halls. 

General  Bonaparte,  drifting  through  the  ballroom  in 
search  of  a  quiet  corner,  evaded  M.  Barras  shadowing 
Madame  Tallien.  For  one  reason,  he  disliked  that  thinly- 
veiled  woman,  and  for  another,  he  did  not  wish  for  any 
further  introductions.  In  his  fatherly  good-nature  Barras 
would  certainly  have  found  him  a  fresh  partner.  Barras 
did  not  like  any  of  his  guests  to  be  worse  off  than  himself. 
(Strictly  speaking,  he  and  Tallien  had  followed  much  the 
same  line  of  policy,  at  least  in  the  matter  of  take-what- 
you-can-get.  But  no  one  ever — now  or  hereafter — 
thought  of  accusing  M.  Barras  of  handling  other  people's 
property  a  trifle  too  roughly.  Such  a  jovial,  good-tem- 
pered, generous  fellow  could  not  steal.  It  went  under 
some  other  name.  Legal  gentlemen  and  kind  people  are 
full  of  finesse.  Lucky  dog,  Barras!) 

Bonaparte,  engrossed  by  his  thoughts — he  was  arrang- 
ing, very  charmingly,  the  future  of  his  dear  little  partner 
— we  nearly  said  playmate — continued  his  search  for  a 
resting-place. 

His  head  ached.  During  the  last  fortnight  he  had 
rather  overtaxed  his  strength.  He  has  worked  prodi- 
giously, day  and  night,  day  and  night.  .  .  .  And  what  a 
study !  That  cold,  comfortless  attic,  with  a  devil's  draught 
wheezing  in  at  the  curtainless  window.  And  meals  at  odd 
moments.  When  the  general  remembered  that  he  was 
hungry — you  can  understand  that  he  was  starving.  What 
it  is  to  possess  youth  and  an  iron  will! 

The  yellow  drawing-room — a  very  ornate  and  gilded 
apartment — led  into  the  red  salon — also  a  place  of  luxury 
and  cold  comfort.  At  the  extreme  end  of  this  apartment 


LOVE  111 

hung  a  curtain  of  Genoa  velvet  of  indescribable  and  faded 
tints — wholly  artistic. 

Without  observing  its  truly  delightful  coloring  the  gen- 
eral, engrossed  by  his  reflections,  stumbled  into  its  heavy 
folds.  (He  had  arrived  at  the  young  lady's  happy  mar- 
riage to  some  man  more  worthy  than  himself.) 

The  curtain  swayed  forward. 

And  he,  without  any  idle  curiosity  but  merely  because 
the  texture  felt  soft  and  cool  to  his  heated  face  (M.  Barras 
kept  his  rooms  at  a  very  high  temperature),  lifted  the 
curtain  and  let  his  fingers  glide  across  the  smooth  surface. 
.  .  .  He  looked  in.  Then  he  dropped  the  heavy  curtain 
behind  him. 

Chance  had  befriended  him.  In  this  little  empty  room, 
with  its  cool  panelled  walls  and  delicate  furnishings,  almost 
in  darkness,  he  felt  safe  from  interruption.  He  could  just 
see  the  dim  outlines  of  a  grand  piano,  a  music  cab- 
inet and  two  uncurtained  windows,  through  which  the 
stars  looked  in. 

If  the  obscure  light  had  been  better — or  if  he  had  given 
the  matter  his  attention — he  might  also  have  noticed  on 
the  deep  divan  (which  ran  the  whole  length  of  one  side  of 
the  little  white  music-room)  a  knot  of  corn-colored  chiffon, 
very  probably  torn  from  some  woman's  dress.  And  if 
he  had  remembered,  or  cared  sufficiently  to  note  such  a 
small  circumstance,  it  was  precisely  from  this  direction 
a  minute  or  two  ago  that  his  genial  host  had  escorted  the 
radiant  Madame  Tallien. 

The  general  walked  across  the  shining  parquet  floor — 
as  it  were  in  the  wake  of  the  moonlight — towards  the 
piano,  and,  selecting  a  chair  at  random,  he  sat  down, 
passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  (a  favorite  gesture  of 
his),  and,  leaning  slightly  forward,  he  stared  at  a  pattern 
on  the  floor,  without  actually  seeing  it  at  all. 

And  here  he  dropped  Mademoiselle  Madeleine's  sister 
from  his  romantic  reflections.  His  thoughts  swept  away 
to  his  own  future — that  shrouded,  mysterious  enthralling 


112  LOVE 

future.     He  was  safe  for  an  hour's  enjoyment.     He  liked 
to  picture  the  scenes  of  an  oft-told  tale  .  .  .  one  day  .  .  . 

And  in  his  immediate  vicinity  a  handful  of  Parisians — 
very  mixed — showed  their  enjoyment  by  loudly  telling 
each  other — by  various,  though  curiously  similar  methods 
— how  altogether  happy  they  were. 

The  noise  floated  in  through  the  ancient  Genoa  velvet 
curtains — the  laughter,  the  stamping,  the  murmuring,  the 
music — yet  delightfully  mellowed.  This  outside  world — 
two  good  strides  away— was  of  such  very  small  signifi- 
cance to  General  Bonaparte.  He  could  afford  to  treat 
it  with  the  contempt  it  deserved.  These  pleasure-seekers 
could  not  interfere  with  his  schemes.  They  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  his  plans  .  .  .  these  capering  marion- 
ettes pulled  by  no  master-hand.  He  had  long  ago  summed 
up  Barras — and  with  considerable  accuracy. 

He  did  not  signify.  Nor  M.  Tallien — Tallien,  with  the 
shifty  eyes  and  the  immense  laugh.  Tallien  was  practically 
a  corpse,  swaying  on  the  gallows  of  contempt.  A  certain 
(and  unpleasant)  wind  had  set  him  going.  People  were 
very  blind  when  they  could  accept  Tallien  as  the  real 
thing. 

The  Potter  fills  his  vessels  thus — 
In  secrecy  to  each  of  us — 
In  one  a  flame  of  lambent  fire, 
To  another  empty  nothingness. 

Thou  Soul,  cast  in  clay, 
What  of  thy  little  day? 
Be  thou  at  peace  or  war, 
Mov'st  thou  from  place  to  place 
God's  light,  through  the  open  door, 
Falls  full  upon  thy  face. 

Look  thou  up  at  the  wintry  sky, 

When  darkness  wanders  by; 

Ten  thousand  stars  alive,  alike, 

Yet  none  alike. 

Each  life  a  star,  her  little  trade  to  ply; 

To  quicken,  to  twinkle,  and  to  die 

Alike,  yet  none  alike. 


LOVE  113 

There  we  have  his  own  blind  reasons,  his  own  blind 
trust,  his  own  supreme  faith  in  some  shadowy  Being,  whose 
sole  divine  right  was  to  guard  his — Bonaparte's  interests. 

He  would  win  through.  He  saw  the  victory.  As  yet 
but  darkly  the  means.  Revolution?  No,  played  out,  the 
revolution  of  antics  and  somersaults.  It  would  not  pay 
— for  instance — to  set  Tallien  against  Barras  and  Barras 
against  Carnot  and  Carnot  against  Menou  ...  he  pre- 
ferred to  work  it  out  one  against  all.  .  .  .  One  against  all! 
He  raised  his  head  with  an  upward  j  erk  and  his  eyes  shone 
almost  uncannily  bright.  He  looked  a  Csesar  every  inch 
of  him.  .  .  .  (Ah,  Bonaparte,  what  it  is  to  have  youth 
and  an  iron  will!) 

There  he  sat  in  a  brown  study — though  actually  his 
mental  circle  was  amazingly  clear — and  wrought  sheet 
after  sheet  in  his  mind,  of  no  fantastic  will-o'-the-wisp 
schemings,  but  scholarly  deductions  based  on  sober  fact. 

The  clock  struck  two  hours  after  midnight. 

In  the  adjoining  rooms  complete  silence  reigned.  If 
General  Bonaparte  had  given  the  matter  a  thought  (which 
he  did  not),  he  might  have  realized  that  M.  Barras' 
extremely  contented  guests  were  feeding.  The  dining-room 
lay  a  good  long  way  from  the  little  white  music-room,  and 
there  Noise  had  gathered. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TF  we  could  only  look  into  the  heart  of  things — below 
•*•  the  surface.  Anyone — given  some  natural  aptitude — 
can  describe  a  man's  appearance;  ring  the  accurate  note 
from  a  dwelling-room  or  reproduce  the  coloring  of  a  land- 
scape. The  picture  may  be  crude  yet  fairly  correct.  But 
how  much  wider  the  scope  of  individuality !  They  say  an 
idle  pipe — black  from  usage — the  thumbed  seam  of  a 
woman's  needlework,  still  warm  from  the  imprint  of  her 
hand — can  speak  volumes.  How  much  more  so  a  glimpse 
of  a  man's  soul,  seen  beneath  his  unguarded  glance? 

It  is  quite  easy  to  conceive  the  outward  appearance  of 
the  future  Emperor  in  his  lean  and  early  stage.  We  have 
a  good  view  of  his  features.  We  observe  his  sensitive 
mouth,  his  blue-shadowed  eyes,  the  pinched  pallor  of  his 
face.  We  note  his  threadbare  uniform  (boots  and  all) 
in  spite  of  the  gloaming.  We  can  see  the  little  white 
music-room  and  the  hangings  of  Genoa  velvet  (of  inde- 
scribable and  lovely  tints).  By  craning  our  necks  we  can 
look  up  at  the  domed  ceiling  painted  by  Boucher.  But 
the  man — the  chrysalis  of  a  great  man — can  we  get  beneath 
the  surface  and  share  his  hunger  ?  He  was  close  on  starva- 
tion. Understand  us.  Not  for  Esau's  mess,  but  for 
Esau's  heritage.  He  was  starving  for  action.  This  ball 
represented  to  him  endless  stagnation  ...  it  might  go 
on  for  years.  In  the  meanwhile  he'd  die.  And  no  one 
would  be  sorry.  Except,  maybe,  his  mother.  His  mother 
loved  him. 

I  tell  you  he  was  near  to  tears.  His  hands  trembled  on 
the  hilt  of  his  rapier.  He  had  nothing  to  do  with  balls. 
He  hated  them.  He  was  an  outsider;  an  interloper,  not 
worthy  of  Tallien's  disused  yellow  coat.  Not  in  the  owner's 

114 


LOVE  115 

eyes — eh?  Now  that  was  monstrous.  If  he  had  it  given 
to  him  as  a  present,  he  would  not  wear  it.  He'd  stuff  it 
into  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  and  shoot  it  into  the  sea. 

He  laughed  hysterically.  He  wouldn't  trouble  to  pick 
the  man  out  of  it.  He'd  shoot  Man-Tallien  in  his  yellow 
coat  into  the  sea.  .  .  .  That  would  be  fine.  Then  he'd 
go  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  "Gentlemen  of  France," 
he'd  say,  "I'm  ready  to  help  you.  You  are  in  a  corner; 
I'll  pull  you  out.  Let  Tallien  sink.  We'll  go  on,  march- 
ing in  time.  There  are  thousands  behind  you,  gentlemen, 
ready  to  fall  into  line.  We'll  conquer  the  world.  We'll 
attract  glory  and  the  attention  of  the  Powers.  We'll  win, 
hands  down.  I'll  lead  you.  Victory  awaits  us.  God's 
sun  is  shining  on  our  faces.  .  .  ." 

He  had  his  speech  pat.  He  conned  it  over  with  great 
relish.  He  got  up  and  marched  round  the  room.  His 
boots  creaked.  His  rapier  tapped  his  heel.  It  didn't 
inconvenience  him. 

Suddenly   lie   stopped,   bewildered. 

The  little  room,  dim  and  deserted,  was  full  of  ghosts. 
They  mocked  him.  They  danced  round  him.  "How  are 
you  going  to  start — eh?  Drawing  maps  no  one  looks  at 
isn't  the  best  work  for  your  job.  You  yourself  are  in  a 
corner,  little  man.  The  ladies  are  dancing  in  front  of  you. 
And  Tallien  and  Barras  and  the  other  big  men  won't 
look  at  you." 

He  held  up  his  hands,  his  thin,  nervous  hands. 

"Stop!"  he  yelled  to  his  unseen  tormentors.  "One 
against  all !  And  absolute  victory !" 

There  was  a  magic  light  in  his  face.  I  tell  you  he  fright- 
ened the  ghosts  away.  They  vanished  in  a  troop  down 
the  empty  gallery.  The  guests  were  at  supper. 

"All  alone  in  the  dark?     Supper  is  going  on " 

"It  can  wait."     Bonaparte  waved  an  impatient  hand. 

"Sit  down,  Joseph.     I  have  wanted  a  word  with  you  all 

the  evening." 

M.  Joseph  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  putting  his  hand 


116  LOVE 

in  his  waistcoat  pocket  he  found  his  tinder-box,  struck  a 
light  and  with  careful  precision  lit  six  candles  set  in  the 
little  crystal  chandelier.  He  could  just  manage  it. 

Then  he  turned  and  looked  critically  at  the  general, 

"Can  you  afford  it,"  he  said,— "or  France?" 

"Beggars  can't  be  choosers." 

"To-night  we  are  all  rich  men." 

"Think  so?" 

M.  Joseph  sat  down  on  one  of  M.  Barras'  charming 
gilt  -fauteuils.  He  crossed  his  legs  and  studied  his  finger- 
nails. "You  have  pretty  far  to  go,"  he  said. 

"Have  I  started?"  said  the  other  bitterly.  "It  is  the 
hopeless  delay  of  it  all  which  maddens  me.  Aren't  we 
superlatively  true  to  ourselves  to-night?  Not  a  man  in 
France  knows  his  own  mind." 

"Barring  yourself,  general." 

"Think  so?"     Again  that  whipcord  of  a  voice. 

Silence  fell  between  them.  The  six  candles  were  burn- 
ing quite  steadily.  M.  Joseph  glanced  towards  the  piano 
and  frowned.  "I  am  disappointed  in  M.  Barras,"  he  said 
presently. 

"I  am  not,"  said  Bonaparte.  "You  can  see  through 
the  man.  He  is  made  of  glass." 

"She  is  one  of  those  hopelessly  selfish  creatures  who 
only  trade  on  their  beauty.  She'll  ruin  him.  Now,  the 
other  lady " 

Bonaparte  laughed  a  little  shrilly.  "Let  us  leave  women 
out  of  it.  They  never  interest  me." 

"Touch  wood,  general.  Frankly,  I  am  in  a  bad  temper. 
Barras  is  not  clever  enough  to  hide  that  he  is  a  born  fool." 

"Does  it  matter?  He  is  the  most  influential  man  in 
France." 

"So  you  believe  in  empty  titles?" 

"It  is  a  fact.  Tallien  is  played  out.  Menou  is  not  the 
master  of  a  crisis " 

"It  will  be  here  before  we  can  turn  round." 

The  general  scowled  sardonically.  "In  the  meanwhile 
let  us  dance  and  amuse  ourselves " 


LOVE  117 

"And  trust  the  people,"  supplemented  the  other,  looking 
towards  the  window. 

"Exactly.     They'll  help  us." 

"I  wonder.  Nice  little  room,  this,"  said  M.  Joseph, 
irrelevantly.  "It  is  full  of  ghosts,  well-mannered  ghosts. 
Amusing  sometimes  to  hear  them  talk.  They  are  always 
whispering,  you  know." 

Bonaparte  shivered.  He'd  been  thinking  just  the  same 
thing. 

"I'll  take  whatever  offers,"  he  said. 

"Don't.     It  is  a  mistake." 

"Listen!" 

"I've  done  nothing  else  all  my  life,  sir.  Frankly,  I'm 
none  the  wiser." 

"I've  learnt  a  deal  by  keeping  quiet." 

"And  trusting  to  luck." 

"I'm  a  very  lucky  man."  The  general  laughed  bitterly. 
"At  Toulon  I  had  the  benefit  of  Barras'  wisdom."  The 
general  coiled  himself  up  as  if  he  were  a  corkscrew.  "He's 
letting  the  secret  out  now — it  is  common  property,  sir 
— I  only  act  under  orders — devil  an  idea  of  my  own! 
Ha-ha!" 

"If  it  amuses  him "  began  Joseph,  mildly  reproach- 
ful. "The  men  who  count " 

"Not  one — not  one !"  screamed  Bonaparte.  "A  blunder- 
ing set  of  idiots,  and  I've  got  to  lick  their  boots — hear? 
I,  Bonaparte!" 

"A  passing  phase  which  no  one  will  remember.  When 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  we  have  uncommonly  short 
memories."  Joseph  nodded  pleasantly  towards  the  recep- 
tion-rooms. "They  are  wise  to  forget,"  he  said. 

"A  turning-point  in  our  history." 

"At  a  usurious  cost,  sir." 

"It  had  to  be." 

"Maybe.  Yet  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  conceive  the 
necessity  of  a  Tallien." 

"He  swept  away  delusion.  A  few  months  ago  we  wor- 
shipped Robespierre  and  Reason." 


118  LOVE 

"To-day  it  is  rather  the  fashion  to  cry  him  down." 

"He  had  his  good  points." 

M.  Joseph  stroked  the  arm  of  his  gilt  chair.  "He  was 
your  friend,"  he  remarked. 

"I  had  no  reason  to  dislike  him." 

"He  failed." 

"I  have  studied  history."  Like  a  searchlight  a  smile  lit 
the  general's  face.  He  looked  extraordinarily  attractive. 

"Glad  it  amused  you." 

"Like  a  little  girl "  He  slipped  his  hand  within  his 

pocket,  fingering  a  broken  fan. 

"There,  you  see,"  said  Joseph  still  smoothing  the  arm 
of  his  gilt  chair.  "I  was  right  and  you  were  wrong." 

"You  are  too  clever,  M.  le  due,  by  far." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  general." 

Bonaparte  rose  and  came  across  the  room  and  laid  his 
hand  affectionately  on  M.  Joseph's  shoulder.  He  stood 
a  while  looking  at  him.  Joseph  bore  the  scrutiny  without 
flinching.  His  hand  (a  fine,  tapering  hand)  lay  quite 
still  on  the  ledge  of  the  chair. 

"Your  brother:  served  under  me  at  Toulon.  We  were 
at  close  quarters.  I  never  pick  my  friends — I  find  them." 

"I  thank  you." 

"Sooner  or  later  you  will  have  to  drop  your  mask — 

"No,"  said  Joseph  tranquilly,  "never." 

"I  don't  see  the  reason " 

"Reason  is  dead,  and  M.  Robespierre." 

Bonaparte  strode  up  and  down  the  little  room.  He 
crossed  his  arms  behind  his  back.  "Keep  your  secret," 
he  said  savagely. 

"It  is  not  my  secret." 

"Your  brother " 

"He  was  of  the  same  mind  as  myself.  A  curious  case 
of  hereditary  obstinacy."  Joseph  spoke  with  a  flash  of 
family  pride.  "Even  extinction  has  its  privileges." 

"It  is  not  a  matter  of  death,"  said  Bonaparte,  coming 
to  a  halt. 

"No?" 


LOVE  119 

"But  of  life!" 

Suddenly,  like  a  peal  of  castanets  through  the  curtained 
doorway  came  Madame  Tallien's  staccato  accents,  accom- 
panied by  Madame  Tallien's  unmistakable  laugh,  carried 
on  the  sound  of  many  voices;  the  intimacy  of  the  little 
room  was  broken  by  the  rustle  of  petticoats,  the  creak  of 
shoe-leather,  the  patter  of  feet,  the  clatter  of  swords  and 
— above  all — the  band  refreshed.  Noise  had  returned  in 
full  force. 

"Citoyen  Joseph,  where  are  you,  Citoyen  Joseph?" 
screamed  Terezia. 

"Stay,"  said  Bonaparte.  "One  moment.  Is  it  worth 
it?" 

"Entirely,"  said  M.  Joseph,  lifting  the  curtain. 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"Au  revoir,  general.  In  the  meanwhile,  attend  to 
supper." 

Bonaparte  watched  M.  Barras'  secretary  disappear,  and 
listened  to  his  polite  accents,  speaking  to  Madame  Tallien. 
"You  are  quite  splendid  to-night,"  he  was  saying. 

The  general  couldn't  see  the  lady.  But  he  heard  her 
laugh  and  could  quite  well  fancy  her  expressive  eyes  in 
full  play.  "Dear  M.  Joseph,  please  tell  them  to  put  out 
all  the  lights  in  the  ballroom,"  she  pleaded. 

"Certainly,  madam.     Anything  further?" 

"Ha!  ha!"  (How  she  laughed!)  "Old  lamps  for  new. 
Any  fusty  old  things  you  have,  covered  up  in  red  stuff. 
You  know " 

"I  know." 

"You  are  so  clever,  Joseph.  Oh,  it  will  be  divine !  Tell 
the  band  to  follow  their  instructions  minutely.  Every- 
thing depends  on  the  music.  .  .  ." 

Their  voices  trailed  away  in  the  distance. 

Bonaparte  stood  still.  Only  his  eyes  moved.  He 
glanced  around  him,  as  if  inviting  ghostly  confidence.  .  .  . 
Had  the  Revolution  spun  its  deadly  course  simply  to  cover 
Madame  Tallien's  pleasure?  .  .  .  The  ghosts  reserved 
their  opinion. 


120  LOVE 

He  took  a  rapid  step  to  the  window,  and  flung  open  the 
casement.  The  cold  night  air  streamed  into  the  heated 
room  like  a  sharp  electric  current.  Far  down  below  he 
saw  shadowy  figures  move  across  the  snow.  And  up  in 
the  clear  sky  a  few  stars  shone. 

He  stood  there  a  moment  utterly  unguarded.  He  stood 
alone  between  the  world  where  one  is  amused  and  the  world 
where  one  suffers — and  to  both  he  was  oblivious. 

Very  carefully  he  shut  the  window.  He  had  asked  for 
a  sign  and  it  had  been  given  him.  He  almost  thanked 
God,  but  God  was  only  a  relative  value  in  his  scheme  of 
existence.  And  yet — is-  not  all  superstition  based  on 
religion? 

It  was  three  or  four  in  the  morning  and  the  last  remnant 
of  restraint  had  vanished  between  M.  Barras'  enchanted 
guests.  A  few  had  gone  home. 

M.  Joseph  himself  conducted  Madame  de  St.  Innocent 
and  Madame  de  Beauharnais  into  the  roomy  depths  of 
M.  Barras'  rather  splendid  private  coach. 

At  first  the  ladies  had  very  distinctly  refused  to  accept 
the  proffered  courtesy.  It  was  taking  an  unfair  advantage, 
they  said,  of  their  host's  kindness.  The  weather  was  fine 
and,  attended  by  their  man-servant,  the  ladies  could  very 
well  walk  until  they  found  a  hackney  cab.  The  hackney 
cab  being  in  this  case  a  prohibited  luxury  and  merely 
used  as  an  elegant  figure  of  speech,  as  it  were,  to  counter- 
balance M.  Barras'  extremely  comfortable  carriage. 

It  was  drawn  up  under  the  portico.  The  horses  stood 
like  "lambs"  and  the  aristocratic  coachman  looked  as  if 
he  had  been  carved  in  stone  and  cemented  on  to  his  high 
box-seat,  like  all  well-trained  servants,  not  entering  into 
the  discussion  as  much  as  by  a  flutter  of  his  eyelid. 

Madame  de  St.  Innocent  gave  an  involuntary  shiver  as 
she  drew  her  blue  fox  tippet  closer  round  her  delicate 
throat,  and  looked  across  the  great  courtyard,  over  the 
head  of  her  respectful  lackey,  who  was  waiting  with  .1 


LOVE  121 

lantern  in  his  hand — the  little  candle  gleaming  as  a  glow- 
worm on  the  snow. 

Immediately  behind  her  stood  Mrs.  Fanny  clutching  her 
reticule  (very  well  filled)  beneath  her  immense  cloak — 
an  heirloom,  by  the  way,  and  made  by  a  dead  and  gone 
tailor,  purveyor  to  Louis  XIV.  (He,  the  sensitive  artist, 
would  doubtless  have  turned  in  his  grave  if  he  had  known 
that  one  day — in  the  direct  line — his  carriage-cloak  con- 
templated walking  the  back  streets  of  Paris,  at  an 
unearthly  hour  'twixt  night  and  dawn.) 

"I  assure  you,  citoyenne,  the  carriage  has  been  waiting 
here  some  time." 

"For  someone  else,"  said  Mrs.  Fanny  archly.  "You 
can  never  deceive  me,  citoyen."  Her  ancient  furred  mantle 
gave  her  thin  face  the  look  of  a  tired  clown.  Around  her 
white  wig  floated  a  black  lace  scarf.  The  night  air  had 
nipped  her  nose. 

M.  Joseph  regarded  her  with  profound  respect.  "I 
assure  you,  ladies,  Madame  Josephine  de  Beauharnais 
would  be  only  too  enchanted  if  you  would  exercise  the 
horses " 

"Josephine  !"  Her  aunt's  voice  rang  very  sharply.  She 
turned  and  whispered  to  her  friend.  "In  that  case  we  can 
very  well  do  as  M.  Joseph  suggests.  She  won't  be  ready 
for  hours.  Though  she  seemed  tired.  When  a  woman 
looks  tired  at  a  ball  you  can  depend  upon  it  that  she  is 
having  a  disappointin'  time.  You  can't  deceive  me.  On 
the  whole  I  am  very  glad. — Get  in,  my  dear." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Madame  de  St.  Innocent. 

"At  your  service,  madam." 

"Good-night,  sir,"  called  Madame  <ie  Beauharnais,  as 
the  carriage,  galvanized  into  action  swung  across  the  great 
courtyard,  out  through  the  massive  gates  and  down  the 
dark,  steep  street  to  the  right. 

Madame  de  St.  Innocent's  footman,  standing  behind  on 
the  carriage  footboard,  blew  out  his  lantern.  They  were 
evil  times,  you  see — and  even  farthing  dips  had  their 
value. 


122  LOVE 

Through  the  lighted  vestibule  and  the  brilliantly 
illuminated  gallery  M.  Joseph — unobserved — returned  to 
the  ballroom.  He  slipped  like  an  eel  through  the  crowd 
of  dancers  and  disappeared  through  a  tiny  door,  hidden 
beneath  the  musicians'  balcony. 

The  little  door  opened  into  an  equally  small  room,  its 
principal  space  being  occupied  by  a  square  table.  The 
table  was  laid  out  for  supper.  One  cover  at  the  upper 
end.  There  was  a  large  flagon  of  Burgundy,  a  generous 
dish  of  fried  steak  and  onions,  garnished  with  boiled 
spinach  and  potatoes;  also  two  poached  eggs.  A  good 
square  loaf  and  a  slab  of  butter  completed  the  homely 
repast. 

M.  Joseph  just  glanced  at  the  table.  "It  is  all  right, 
Jacques.  You  can  go." 

The  white-aproned  kitchen-boy  with  a  huge  grin  on 
his  face  touched  his  cap  and  promptly  disappeared.  M. 
Joseph  followed  his  example. 

Once  again  he  glided  through  the  ballroom — this  time 
with  his  eyes  wide  open.  He  soon  discovered  his  man. 
He  was  standing  by  himself  by  one  of  the  doorways — not 
enjoying  himself  in  the  least.  A  gloomy  little  man,  a  pale- 
faced,  hungry  little  man. 

M.  Joseph  tapped  him  on  the  arm. 

He  woke  up  and  scowled,  and  then  recognizing  a  friend 
he  smiled. 

"Follow  me." 

"What  is  up?" 

Joseph  looked  mysterious.  The  music  was  beating  one 
discordant  bar.  The  huge  ballroom  was  practically  in 
darkness.  The  meagre  illumination  had  a  very  eerie  effect. 
The  veiled  lamps  were  grouped  in  each  corner  of  the  vast 
room,  and,  in  their  immediate  vicinity,  an  observant  eye 
caught  a  glimpse  of  unknown  faces.  There  is  nothing  so 
strange  as  unguarded  expression.  In  the  semi-darkness 
it  was  quite  possible  that  some  of  M.  Barras'  enchanted 
guests  forgot  that  they  were  not  dancing  in  splendid  isola- 
tion. Surely  if  they  had  remembered  .  .  .? 


LOVE  123 

Through  this  fantastic  world  of  sound  and  touch — 
where  the  senses  played  an  important  part — M.  Joseph, 
very  ably,  conducted  his  friend. 

By  the  modest  little  doorway  under  the  music-gallery 
he  paused.  He  bent  forward  and  whispered,  "In  half  an 
hour  I'll  let  you  out,  on  condition — no,  I  won't  impose  any 
conditions.  Bon  appetit,  M.  le  general." 

Bonaparte's  eyes  twinkled.    He  was  only  a  boy,  after  all. 

"I  had  forgotten  your  advice,"  he  began. 

"You  always  do." 

M.  Joseph  opened  the  door  and  stepped  aside  to  let 
the  other  pass  through.  Out  of  formality,  or  as  a  mere 
precautionary  measure,  he  locked  the  door  and  pocketed 
the  key.  "Just  as  well,"  he  mused.  "Something  may  leap 
into  his  mind  and  he  will  run  out  and  leave  his  supper 
untasted,  for  the  satisfaction  of  noting  an  idea.  He  who 
wastes  good  food  is  an  extravagant  fool." 

Joseph  shook  his  head.  General  Bonaparte  was  not  a 
fool  ...  no  ...  by  no  means.  Fragments  of  his  con- 
versation that  evening  came  back  to  him.  A  person  who 
has  suffered — in  one  form  or  another — is  seldom  easily 
impressed.  In  this  respect  Joseph  was  a*  pretty  hardened 
individual.  But  there  are  exceptions  to  every  rule.  Gen- 
eral Bonaparte  interested  him  in  an  enormous  degree.  He 
was  a  rare  good  speaker.  Not  perhaps  good  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  term,  which  is  not  actually  a  term 
of  praise,  but  extraordinarily  graphic  in  his  statements. 
The  subject  was  wholly  immaterial;  as  long  as  he  touched 
upon  it,  it  lived.  He  was  either  a  charlatan,  a  consum- 
mate actor  or  a  super-man.  In  any  case  he  pleased. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  called  out  one  of  his  acquaintances, 
kissing  her  fingers  to  M.  Barras*  private  secretary.  "The 
music  is  too  weird  for  words.  .  .  .  You  are  a  genius, 
M.  Joseph." 

M.  Joseph  bowed  profoundly.  "I  am  delighted, 
madam,"  he  murmured. 

But  the  couple  were  already  out  of  earshot.  They 
clanced  well.  His  eyes  fell  on  the  little  lady's  white  satin 


124  LOVE 

sandals  laced  with  blue  ribbons.  She  was  looking  up  into 
her  partner's  face  with  flattering  attention.  He  was  a 
mere  Nobody. 

Under  a  group  of  red  and  yellow  lamps  M.  Barras 
paused  an  appreciable  second.  He  had  quite  forgotten 
time,  circumstance  and  place.  His  whole  heart  and  mind 
were  wrapped  up  in  Woman.  He  held  her  also  in  his  warm- 
est embrace.  He  was  looking  at  her  with  almost  brutal 
simplicity.  His  fine  face  had  lost  its  chief  characteristic, 
that  of  careless,  good-tempered  courage.  He  was  evi- 
dently a  man  of  one  idea,  and  the  idea  just  at  present 
left  nothing  to  the  imagination. 

As  to  the  lady  who  had  thus  completely  conquered,  she 
had  not  changed  by  so  much  as  a  dishevelled  curl.  She 
was  complete  mistress  of  the  situation,  and  herself.  You 
see,  she  was  accustomed  to  these  exotic  sensations.  She 
lived  on  them.  They  curved  her  lips  in  happy  smiles  and 
brought  into  her  eyes  intimate  pictures  of  peculiarly  unreal 
value.  The  man  knew  nothing  of  that.  He  only  felt  her 
warm  body,  her  perfumed  breath,  only  heard  her  honeyed 
whispers.  She  spoke  yery  little,  Madame  Tallien.  She 
had  so  little  need  of  words.  There  are  occasions  when 
words  have  no  significance  whatsoever.  She  knew  this. 
After  all,  why  should  she  not  excel  in  her  own  particular 
calling? 

Madame  Tallien  set  the  fashion.  After  her  came  an 
endless  chain  of  men  and  women  given  over  to  pleasure 
— which  in  this  case  covered  rather  an  ugly  name. 

In  and  out  of  the  great  ballroom  they  passed,  moving 
slowly  as  shadows  move,  these  phantoms  of  liberty. 

No  two  couples  danced  alike  as  they  floated  down  the 
ballroom.  Some  clung  to  each  other  in  desperation,  wild- 
eyed  and  haggard.  Others  took  it  in  a  lighter  vein ;  they 
whirled  past,  smiling  into  each  other's  eyes  with  frank 
amusement.  Such  couples  were  scarce  and  invigorating. 
There  lay  nothing  beneath  their  gaiety  and  infectious 
mirth — nothing  but  youth  and  folly  .  .  . 

On  the  whole  it  was  not  an  edifying  spectacle,  but  rather 


LOVE  125 

an  exhibition  of  animal  force ;  there  was  something  sinister 
and  degrading  in  the  atmosphere.  It  called  for  no  explana- 
tion. There  is  nothing  so  terrible  as  restriction.  From 
one  extreme  to  another  is  only  a  step  .  .  . 

Above,  in  the  music-gallery,  came  the  eternal  beat  of  a 
bar  or  two,  discordant,  harsh,  almost  irritatingly  monoto- 
nous. It  was  not  music,  any  more  than  this  bear-feast 
was  dancing.  It  all  belonged  to  extraordinary  circum- 
stances. The  Revolution  still  hung  in  the  air,  as  a 
menacing,  thunderous  cloud.  Life  tottered  and  stood 
unbalanced.  Reason  had  died,  and  M.  Robespierre. 

M.  Joseph  clenched  his  fists — a  solitary  figure  beneath 
the  music-gallery.  He  was  no  longer  passive.  He  was 
furious!  His  nerves  tingled.  The  whole  world  cried 
shame — shame!  And  just  over  his  head  two  or  three 
ridiculous  instruments  twanged  their  eternal  note.  They 
seemed  to  him  to  cry  and  whimper  as  frightened  children. 
Suddenly  he  realized  that  France  stood  on  the  brink  of 
a  new  development.  This  was  the  prelude.  These  naked, 
dishevelled  women ;  these  men  who  did  not  trouble  to  hide 
their  lust.  .  .  .  And  here  and  there — scattered  as  daisies 
on  the  field,  white  and  innocent — those  who  danced  as 
children  romp,  when  the  sun  plays  on  green  meadows. 
.  .  .  Joseph  strained  his  ears  to  listen  to  their  gladness. 

Presently  he  was  joined  by  General  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte. 

They  stood  together,  watching. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all?"  asked  Joseph,  glanc- 
ing full  at  the  other  man's  face. 

And  the  answer  came  as  a  certain  shout  of  triumph. 
Bonaparte  did  not  hesitate  for  one  single  instant. 

"War !"  he  said.  One  word  and  nothing  else.  Nothing 
else  signified. 

He  was  cloaked,  ready  to  go.  There  he  stood — seeing, 
as  it  were,  wide  spaces  in  the  congested  ballroom — his 
cocked  hat  under  his  arm,  an  illuminative  smile  on  his 
face.  He  knew. 

In  the  poignant  pause  which  followed,  M.  Tallien  swept 


126  LOVE 

past  in  his  glory.  In  that  fantastic  light  his  great  red 
mouth  hung  open,  glistening  and  moist  as  warm  sealing- 
wax.  His  long  nose  appeared  longer  than  ever.  His 
eyes  were  scarcely  human.  They  were  the  eyes  of  a 
drunkard.  (Yet  he  was  sober.)  And  as  to  his  clothes! 
Every  one  of  his  forty-five  lapels  fluttered  and  danced 
individually;  and  every  ray  of  light  seemed  to  pick  out 
his  yellow  coat  for  special  distinction.  He  entirely  dom- 
inated his  partner — a  remarkable  woman  with  dark, 
imploring  eyes.  He  held  her  at  arm's  length.  Every 
time  she  drew  nearer  he  pushed  her  off.  It  was  delightful 
sport.  .  .  .  Every  now  and  then  he  laughed.  And  his 
laugh  carried  to  the  uttermost  corners  of  the  room — the 
laugh  of  a  maniac !  It  seemed  to  float  up  and  form  part 
of  the  discordant  band  .  .  . 

Looking  on,  Joseph  could  no  longer  distinguish  the 
face  of  the  crowd.  The  dancers  seemed  to  leap  on  each 
other  and  mingle  together  as  shadows  mingle  when  the 
sun  dies;  they  were  grotesque  and  enormous;  they  repre- 
sented untold  power,  misspent  and  hideous.  They  were 
abominable. 

By  and  by  in  the  great  palace  Silence  returned 
unchecked.  She  wandered  through  the  empty  rooms  in 
search  of  Noise.  She  found  Stupor. 

She  stayed,  observing  her  sister  spirit.  She  sat  motion- 
less, her  head  bowed  in  her  hands. 

"Whence  comest  thou,  sister?" 

"Oh,  well-beloved !  I  follow  in  the  wake  of  excitement," 
she  answered.  "I  give  rest  to  all  living  creatures." 

Silence  inclined  her  head. 

"Let  us  fly  together  to  the  fount  of  dreams,"  said 
Stupor,  "and  return  laden  with  promise." 

Silence  sat  down  opposite  Stupor. 

"Sister,"  she  said,  "we  live  in  the  hearts  of  all  men. 
Together  we  have  rejoiced  in  our  narrow  house " 

"Hand  in  hand,  sister,  through  a  world  of  clouds 

" — And  suffering " 

66 — As  flames  to  pass  beyond " 


LOVE  127 

" — In  honor  of  human  suffering " 

«__ By  God's  grace " 

"And  hope " 

"And  love " 

•"And  charity." 

Their  voices  melted  together  harmoniously  and  died 
away  like  the  last  vibration  of  a  sensitive  instrument. 
There  they  sat,  one  on  either  side  of  the  music-gallery, 
clothed  in  light. 

Through  the  unshuttered  windows  came  the  first  hint 
of  dawn.  And  the  light  deepened  and  spread  until  every 
object  became  clear.  And  Silence  appeared  to  breathe 
and  live  and  move.  She  was  a  very  real  presence. 

Stupor  looked  at  her  with  comfort.  She  would  bring 
her  into  the  street  of  mean  houses,  and  she  would  teach 
those  restless,  aching,  untutored  hearts  the  dignity  of 
pain.  They  could  not  understand,  these  poor  people. 
They  saw  suffering  at  close  quarters.  And  in  their 
ignorance  they  rebelled. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

'T'EREZIA   TALLIEN  lay  in  her  big,  golden  bed— 
•*•  surrounded  by  sunshine  and  roses  (it  was  a  perfect 
June  morning) — tranquilly  looking  towards  the  light. 

Up  in  the  north — she  had  heard — people  held  that  day 
in  peculiar  reverence.  On  Midsummer  Eve  the  fairies  all 
came  to  life  and  big  bonfires  are  lit — close  to  the  water's 
edge — in  commemoration  of  the  triumph  of  Christianity 
or  to  the  dim  glory  of  Paganism — she  was  not  sure  which. 
In  any  case  it  did  not  matter.  Terezia  always  approved 
of  festivity  in  any  form,  and  did  not  care  in  the  least  for 
old  customs  or  new  traditions.  Sufficient  unto  the  day 
was  the  sun  thereof. 

She  had  good  reason  for  looking  satisfied,  as  she  glanced 
towards  the  open  windows.  The  birds  were  singing;  the 
roses  were  blooming,  and  she  was  feeling  miraculously 
well.  She  had  also  heard  the  best  of  news  from  M.  Biro- 
teau.  Dr.  Biroteau  was  the  family  practitioner,  a  gentle- 
man of  very  sound  learning.  As  an  accoucheur  he  was 
really  splendid  (and  very  fashionable).  No  one  in  Paris 
understood  babies  better  than  this  gruff,  bearded  man — 
with  his  uncouth  "bedside"  manner;  nor,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  young  mothers.  He  had  just  handed  her  back 
— as  it  were — her  beauty  enhanced  (precious  possession!), 
plus  a  baby  daughter,  whom  he  declared  a  remarkably 
healthy  infant,  with  all  her  mother's  good  looks. 

This  last  clause  had  slightly  interested  Terezia.  She 
had  turned  her  head  round  on  her  downy  pillows,  covered 
with  fine  lace  and  linen,  and  languidly  asked  to  see  the 
baby.  (Though  really  and  truly  she  ought  to  feel  very 
annoyed  with  her.  Babies  were  only  a  nuisance  at  her 
time  of  life.  Later  on  they  might  form  an  addition  to 

existence,  but  as  it  happened .)     The  baby  had  been 

128 


LOVE  129 

brought  to  her,  and  had  raised  her  long  dark  lashes  and 
revealed  a  pair  of  extraordinarily  deep-blue  eyes,  radiant 
with  young  smiles  which  were  reflected  in  her  tiny  mouth. 
She  had  also  insisted  on  clutching  hold  of  her  mother's 
finger.  (Terezia  had  quite  a  difficulty  in  withdrawing  it.) 

"Yes,"  she  said ;  "she  is  rather  pretty  .  .  .  and  strong. 
Take  her  away,  doctor.  I  am  not  going  to  nurse  her, 
and  she  might  cry.  Tears  always  hurt  me.  Tears  are 
so  unnecessary." 

The  old  doctor  hummed  and  hawed  and  looked  angrily 
at  his  lovely  patient.  His  scornful  glance  swept  the  whole 
length  of  Madame  Tallien's  long-limbed  body,  stretched 
at  ease  beneath  the  thin  pink  silk  coverlet.  The  shape 
of  her  foot  was  very  visible  as  she  arched  it  upwards — 
as  if  in  faint  protest  against  woman's  questionable  fate. 

"I'll  call  her  Rose-Marie  Thermidor.  Don't  you  think 
it  is  a  pretty  name? — and  so  suitable.  Rose  because  she 
was  born  in  June.  Marie  because  the  Virgin  sent  her  (she 
is  often  giving  us  unnecessary  presents).  And  Thermidor 
to  remind  her  of  her  mother  and  a  great  revival." 

Dr.  Biroteau  ceased  frowning  and  politely  agreed. 
After  all,  it  was  not  his  affair  to  teach  Madame  Tallien  the 
duty  of  womanhood  and  the  grace  of  motherhood  (if  such 
instincts  are  teachable).  His  business  was  to  set  her 
going  in  as  brief  a  time  as  possible,  without  risking  the 
perfect  lines  of  her  figure.  She  would  have  to  stay  in 
bed  for  a  fortnight.  She  had  a  fine  constitution  and  not 
a  touch  of  fever.  The  unchristened  Rose-Marie  Thermi- 
dor— poor  little  mite — was  exactly  two  and  a  half  weeks 
old.  Her  wet-nurse,  a  very  worthy  woman,  was  waiting 
in  the  next  room  to  carry  her  off  into  the  country. 

"Good-bye,  baby  dear,"  cooed  Terezia.  "She  won't 
catch  cold,  will  she?" 

"No,  madam." 

"You'll  see  that  she  is  carefully  wrapped  up?" 

"It  is  midsummer,  madam." 

"Aren't  the  horse-chestnuts  lovely?  I  am  quite  happy 
lying  here  and  watching  Paris  from  a  distance.  I  always 


130  LOVE 

told  M.  Tallien  that  this  little  house  would  be  a  gem  in 
summer — it  is  so  countrified.  I  could  almost  fancy  I  was 
back  again  at  Chateau  de  Fontenay.  .  .  ."  (She  shud- 
dered.) "Ah,  me!  Doctor,  doctor,  why  are  we  burdened 
with  memory?" 

"Don't  ask  absurd  questions,  ma'am." 

"It  is  a  very  sensible  question,"  she  pouted. 

The  unchristened  Rose-Marie  laughed — or  gave  some 
such  sound.  She  gurgled  in  the  doctor's  arms,  and  would 
no  doubt  have  kicked  her  little  legs  if  they  had  not  been 
as  tightly  swathed  as  a  mummy's. 

"The  wretch!  She  is  glad  to  leave  me.  That  is  all 
the  thanks  we  get  for  our  agonies.  Though  I  had  a  pretty 
good  time,  doctor." 

"Splendid." 

"You  say  that  to  everyone." 

"I  vary  it  occasionally.  Really,  madam,  I  won't 
answer  for  the  consequences  if  you  insist  on  talking." 

"Thank  you.  It  is  no  exertion  to  recall  pleasant 
things.  Considering  all  I  have  gone  through  I  might  have 
suffered  horribly." 

"You  are  a  splendidly  healthy  woman." 

"Is  that  a  compliment?"  laughed  Terezia,  giving  him 
a  languishing  glance.  (She  could  not  resist  fascinating 
even  this  old  "Grey  Beard"  and  was  far  too  indifferent  to 
results  to  notice  that  she  had  failed.) 

"Do  you  want  to  kiss  her?"  he  asked  roughly,  holding 
Rose-Marie  (very  gently)  towards  her  mother. 

"No — yes.  Take  her  away,  doctor.  I  wish  she  had 
been  as  hideous  as  Georges.  He  was  too  funny  for  words 
— a  little  red-headed  monkey  of  a  baby,  and  solemn  as  an 
owl.  But  not  a  bit  blind.  Oh,  dear!  .  .  ."  (She  laughed, 
caught  at  Rose-Marie — who  kept  a  very  brave  counte- 
nance— and  covered  her  face  with  kisses ) .  "I  adore  thee ! 
Thou  art  the  prettiest  little  morsel  imaginable."  (She 
clapped  her  hand  on  her  forehead.)  "Tallien  is  her  father. 
Explain  the  mystery.  His  child  ought  to  be  a  monster! 
I  tell  you,  I  swear " 


LOVE  131 

The  doctor  pealed  the  bell. 

"Look  after  your  patient,"  he  said  to  the  nurse.  "Pull 
down  the  blinds  and  see  that  she  goes  to  sleep.  When  she 
wakes  give  her  beef-tea.  I'll  call  in  later."  He  bowed 
stiffly  in  the  doorway.  "Au  revoir,  madam." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  attendant.  "We'll  be  very 
good." 

"Nurse,  when  am  I  to  see  the  baby  again?"  Terezia's 
voice  was  a  study  in  emotion. 

"Presently,  presently,  madam.  We  have  got  to  obey 
doctor's  orders,  you  know."  And  the  young  woman 
briskly  bestirred  herself. 

So  little  Rose-Marie,  in  charge  of  her  kind  foster- 
parent,  set  out  for  the  country.  She  managed  very  well, 
thank  you.  She  grew  into  a  graceful,  pretty  child — 
rather  self-willed  and  very  strong.  If  it  interests  you — 
we  can  mention  that  she  had  to  wait  five  years  before  she 
saw  her  beautiful  mother  again  (and  then  only  the  merest 
glimpse).  No  doubt  she  found  consolation  in,  the  bi- 
annual additions  to  her  nursery.  Madame  Tallien,  it 
seemed, — in  spite  of  lier  busy  life — could  not  evade  the 
trials  of  maternity.  From  the  church  registry  we  gather 
that  she  with  praiseworthy  regularity  added  to  the  nation. 
Her  children  bore  the  name  of  Tallien.  As  soon  as  they 
entered  the  world  they  were  drafted  into  the  country  and 
ceased  to  trouble  their  mother.  Before  each  interesting 
event  took  place  she  endured  agonies  of  mind.  Would  she 
live?  Would  her  beauty  suffer?  Would  she  cease  to 
attract?  Without  admiration — physical  or  mental — she 
would  die  or  go  mad — stark,  staring,  raving  mad!  So 
she  said  in  very  open  council.  Everyone  (including  her- 
self) ridiculed  such  eventualities.  And  each  baby  left 
her  secure.  She  rose  from  her  temporary  indisposition 
ten  times  more  beautiful,  ten  times  more  dangerous.  So 
they  said.  So  she  said.  And  everyone  was  pleased,  pos- 
sibly including  the  neglected  little  family.  After  all,  the 
children  led  a  healthy,  pleasant  life  under  the  supervision 
of  a  capable  foster-mother.  Once  or  twice  a  year  M. 


132  LOVE 

Tallien  journeyed  down  on  a  visit  of  inspection.  He 
was  very  respectfully  received  by  the  honest  farmer's 
wife,  and  with  varying  attention  by  the  children.  He 
(according  to  their  nurse)  only  "took"  to  one — his  eldest 
daughter,  christened  Rose-Marie  Thermidor.  You  see, 
he  did  not  doubt  her  parentage.  She  was  his — Ms!  It 
does  make  such  a  world  of  difference  to  a  man's  feel- 
ings. A  man  does  not  care  for  a  baby  unless  it  is  his 
own.  As  to  Terezia's  other  children — healthy,  lovely, 
lively — to  the  day  of  his  death  he  had  his  "doubts."  Out 
of  malice  Terezia  rather  encouraged  them,  or  perhaps 
she  loved  Truth  better  than  Right? 

A  week  later  Madame  Tallien  was  able  to  receive  her 
friends.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  propped  up  by  pillows — two 
massive  though  short  plaits  on  either  side  of  her  head,  a 
sleek  parting  in  the  middle.  (Her  hair  had  been  cut  in 
prison.)  She  looked  like  a  radiant  young  person  of  fif- 
teen, with  an  uncommonly  good  complexion,  and  a  pair 
of  eyes  washed  in  innocence— dewy-bright,  sparkling  with 
health  and  happiness.  Furthermore,  her  maid  had  dressed 
her  in  a  soft  negligee- — all  lace  and  ribbons  and  tuckings — • 
a  miracle  of  fine  stitchery.  By  her  bedside  stood  a  single 
rose — almost  as  beautiful  as  herself.  Everyone  remarked 
on  the  resemblance,  with  the  proper  qualifications.  .  .  . 
Terezia  smiled.  She  was  all  smiles.  The  weather  was 
magnificent,  almost  as  glorious  as  her  own  fine  pros- 
pects. 

M.  Tallien  had  recently  left  for  the  south — sent  on  an 
affair  of  state.  He  had  been  given  great,  though  not  un- 
limited, authority.  General  Hoche  (whom  he  cordially 
disliked)  remained  in  command  of  the  army  sent  to  quell 
that  long-drawn-out  farce  —  tragic  enough  —  called  the 
Wars  of  La  Vendee.  The  enemy  consisted  of  a  handful 
of  peasants,  rustic  rebels  insufficiently  clothed  and  ludi- 
crously armed.  They  tried  to  knock  you  down  with 
bludgeons,  short  staves,  wolfish  rapacity,  fierce,  mad 
words,  and  fiercer  and  madder  glances.  They  were  very 


LOVE  133 

easily  pennc'd.  A  few  good  round  shots — why,  the  beggars 
had  hardly  a  bullet  between  them! — would  settle  their 
hash. 

And  then — when  the  affair  was  practically  over — news 
leaked  through  that  the  Royalists — backed  by  the  crafty 
English,  who  never  can  be  beaten — had  landed  some  one 
thousand  five  hundred  strong  at  Quiberon — very  deter- 
mined and  fully  armed.  The  Convention  trembled.  The 
safety  of  France  was  at  stake!  One  thousand  five  hun- 
dred. .  .  .  (When  one  compares  warfare  of  an  odd  hun- 
dred years  ago  and  our  present-day  system  of  millions 
in  action — one  gasps  at  the  difference.  One  thousand  five 
hundred.  .  .  .  "What  a  contemptible  little  army!") 

In  feverish  haste  M.  Tallien  was  sent  to  quell  the  in- 
surrection. In  his  august  person  he  represented  law  and 
order.  As  far  as  that  went,  he  was  given  a  free  hand  to 
act  according  to  his  vast  knowledge  and  wisdom.  He 
could  not  interfere  with  the  army  (thanks  to  M.  Barras' 
foresight),  but  he  could  regulate  justice  in  all  other  direc- 
tions. Unfortunately,  in  spite  of  his  "wisdom  and  experi- 
ence" he  was  a  man  of  one  idea,  and,  on  the  whole,  a  nar- 
row-minded optimist.  His  color  was  red.  At  Quiberon  he 
had  recourse  to  his  old  methods,  though  the  times  were 
vividly  new.  He  killed  off  the  prisoners  in  cold  blood. 
Massacre,  massacre!  A  howl  went  through  France,  a 
howl  of  execration,  fury  and  contempt.  Willingly,  oh, 
so  willingly  would  he  have  retrieved  his  folly.  If  it  had 
been  possible  he  would  with  his  own  large  hands  have 
dug  out  of  the  new-turned  earth  some  hundred  dead 
"traitors"  and  set  them  on  their  feet  again  as  live  men, 
good  and  true.  It  was  beyond  him.  He  was  no  miracle 
worker,  M.  Tallien,  but  a  man  so  engrossed  with  his  own 
vanity  that  his  natural  cowardice  sheltered  behind  make- 
shift courage.  He  had  not  observed  the  nature  of  the 
howls  until  the  catastrophe  had  occurred.  He  had  been 
so  sure  of  acclamations  that  at  first  he  could  not  credit  his 
ears,  or  his  eyes,  as  he  scanned  the  flimsy  news-sheets. 
Were  they  angry  with  him  for  doing  his  duty  ?  He  rubbed 


134  LOVE 

his  large  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  terror  and  contrition.  He 
was  ready,  individually  and  collectively,  to  lick  the  feet 
of  the  Convention,  if  they  would  only  overlook  his  zeal. 
A  man  can  do  no  more  than  his  best. 

At  Quiberon  Tallien  irrevocably  sealed  his  fate.  He 
was  not  one  of  the  signally  blessed  who  leave  their  debts  to 
the  third  generation.  At  Quiberon  he  definitely  took  the 
downward  course.  (At  the  extreme  bottom  of  the  hill 
there  lay  an  old  diseased  beggar,  tattered,  forlorn,  whin- 
ing for  alms  as  he  crouched  against  the  parapet  of  a  well- 
known  Paris  bridge,  staring  with  purblind  eyes  into  strange 
faces.  .  .  .)  The  affair  of  Quiberon  sent  him  spinning. 
He  lost  his  balance,  as  it  were,  and  before  he  realized  it 
he  was  neck-deep  in  September.  September?  September! 
Look  back,  and  the  whole  bloody  word  will  leap  to  your 
mind  like  a  broad  sheet  of  lightning.  Tallien  was  a 
doomed  man  because  of  his  dealings  at  the  beginning  of 
the  Revolution.  Men  recalled  the  fate  of  the  lovely  Prin- 
cesse  de  Lamballe — others  again  remembered  the  calm 
courage  of  a  few  black-robed  priests,  veritable  servants  of 
God — all  cruelly  done  to  death.  Some  saw  naught  dis- 
tinctly, but  a  gloomy  little  back  street,  literally  running 
in  gore.  The  street  divided  two  prison-houses.  An  un- 
earthly piece  of  strategy — or  shall  we  call  it  butchery,  M. 
Tallien? 

"Do  come  in!     How  sweet  you  look!" 

This  from  Madame  Tallien  in  bed,  with  two  exquisite 
arms  outstretched,  and  a  pair  of  eyes,  guileless  as  a  dove's, 
turned  towards  the  open  door. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  come  for  ages,  only  Dr.  Biro- 
teau  is  so  frightfully  strict,  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it!  I've 
such  heaps  of  things  to  tell  you.  Where  is  the  baby?  Is 
she  pretty?" 

This  from  a  charming  woman,  standing  on  the  thresh- 
old, with  a  bunch  of  lilies-of-the-valley  in  her  gloved 
hand.  She  was  all  in  white,  white  shoes,  white  gloves, 
white  hat — a  deal  of  pink  on  her  cheeks  and  her  beautiful 


LOVE  135 

russet-brown  hair  coiffed  (Mi  coup  de  vent — that's  to  say, 
with  artistic  simplicity.  M.  Duplon  had  exceeded  him- 
self, and  maybe  happiness  had  aided  him?  Don't  they  say 
that  a  happy  woman  looks  her  best?  Josephine  de  Beau- 
harnais  loved  a  beautiful  day.  She  had  been  profiting  by 
it,  too.  She  had  escaped  to  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau, 
where  she'd  gathered  her  lilies,  and  eaten  a  rare  good 
lunch,  all  in  the  society  of — ah,  well — a  man.  Whatever 
she  does  herself,  we  won't  give  her  away.  And  why 
shouldn't  she  lunch  with  anyone  she  pleased?  Is  there 
any  status  so  free-and-easy  as  that  of  a  widow?  No 
grumpy  husband  in  the  background — no  watchful  mamma 
to  the  fore — no  jealous  sister  in  the  light.  It  really  is 
an  excellent  condition  for  a  woman,  in  addition  to  being 
young,  lovely  and  attractive.  Josephine,  smiling  in  the 
doorway,  felt  very  well  pleased  with  her  lot.  .  .  .  Still, 
she  might  do  better.  Her  little  conscience  smote  her. 
Those  blessed  children!  M.  Barras  always  had  a  knack 
of  making  her  forget  them — and  they  were  growing  so 
enormous,  too — but  the  general  revived  them.  In  the  gen- 
eral's company  she  always  remembered  Eugene  and  Hor- 
tense.  Then  she'd  sigh.  After  all,  a  mother's  duties  aren't 
the  lightest  in  the  world  .  .  .  and  she'd  smile  kindly  at  the 
general's  voiceless  courtship.  So  far  he  hadn't  "spoken." 
Not  with  his  tongue-tied  lips.  But  his  eyes!  Good 
heavens!  his  eyes  told  her  everytlnmg.  (No  necessity  to 
emphasize  the  point;  we  are  prepared  to  believe  in  his 
"intentions"  without  it.  They  were  plain  as  the  moon 
with  a  round,  round  face  in  a  northern  sky.) 

"I'm  quite  well,  darling.  Sit  down  here.  I  want  to 
look  at  you." 

Josephine  seated  herself  by  the  open  window — framed 
in  roses.  "What  a  charming  view,"  she  said.  "I  had  no 
idea  a  baby  was  so  becoming." 

Which  latter  compliment  must  have  been  addressed  to 
Madame  Tallien  and  not  to  the  Bois. 

"I'm  so  glad  it  is  over.    The  baby  has  gone." 

"Why?" 


136  LOVE 

"Goose!  Look  at  me.  Josephine,  what  have  you  been 
doing?" 

"Nothing." 

"I've  heard  about  you." 

Josephine  laughed.  "He's  such  a  silly  young  man," 
she  said,  half  deprecatingly. 

"Why  encourage  him?" 

"He  doesn't  want  encouragement.  When  is  the  christen- 
ing to  be?" 

"The  Gigots  will  see  to  it — Rose-Marie  Thermidor's 
foster-parents — quite  worthy  people.  And  healthy.  I 
always  do  my  duty." 

"You've  done  me  out  of  a  party.  Fie,  Terezia,  I've 
already  bought  her  a  mug,  and  I  intended  to  hold  her 
myself  at  the  font.  It  is  too  bad  of  you.  I'll  never  do 
you  a  kindness  again." 

"Sorry,  darling.     Who   gave  you  those  lilies?" 

"I  gathered  them  myself." 

"My  favorite  flowers.  It  is  wonderful  how  Barras  can 
find  time  for  excursions." 

"Wrong!" 

"Darling,  you  can  never  deceive  me." 

"M.  Barras  has  a  great  respect  for  you." 

"I  know  he  has.  Don't  mention  it  to  him,  but  I  admire 
him  enormously." 

"I  won't." 

They  smiled  at  each  other  as  women  smile  under  the 
circumstances.  For  one  horrible  second  Terezia  almost 
failed  in  her  implicit  self-belief.  What  if  Josephine  had 
taken  an  unfair  advantage  of  her  poor  condition?  Her 
heart  hardened  towards  Rose-Marie  Thermidor. 

Terezia  sighed.  "I  wish  life  wasn't  so  complicated," 
she  said. 

"It  isn't.  It  is  beautifully  simple.  Live  to  enjoy  your- 
self, that's  all." 

"You  haven't  been  ill  and  worried.  I'm  in  a  fever  of 
anxiety,  Josephine." 


LOVE  137 

Josephine  looked  at  her  anxiously.  "What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"That  brute  Tallien " 

"I  am  so  sorry." 

"I  never  trust  him  out  of  my  sight.  He  was  sent  to 
Quiberon  to  get  into  mischief.  And  won't  he  succeed, 
that's  all!" 

"Perhaps  he'll  behave  himself.  General  Bonaparte  was 
only  telling  me  the  other  day  that  it  was  a  very  trifling 
affair." 

"General  Bonaparte!" 

Terezia  sat  up  in  bed,  looking  the  very  picture  of  scorn. 

"Do  you  believe  everything  that  silly  young  man  tells 
you?  Marry  him,  do  marry  him.  It  may  turn  out 
brilliantly." 

"I  don't  want  to — seriously,  I'd  rather  not." 

"You  are  such  a  simpleton " 

"In  the  hands  of  the  most  obstinate  man  in  the  world. 
I'm  almost  afraid  of  him." 

"A  penniless  nobody!" 

"He  may  get  on.     M.  Barras  believes  in  him." 

Terezia  lay  back  on  her  pillows — smiling.  "It  is  very 
romantic,"  she  said  gently.  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  M. 
Barras  was  right.  I've  only  seen  him  twice — the  general, 
I  mean — and  on  each  occasion  he  has  impressed  me " 

"Favorably?" 

"Favorably." 

"He's  so  jumpy,  darling.  That's  the  exact  word.  You 
never  know  what  he  is  going  to  do  next.  There  is  no 
method  in  his  madness " 

"Love,"  corrected  Terezia,  still  smiling.  (If  Barras  was 
working  the  matter  he  clearly  wanted  to  get  rid  of  the 
widow  to  leave  the  field  clear  ...  a  great  splash  of  sun- 
shine floated  over  her  world.  .  .  .)  "Give  me  the  lilies, 
darling.  I  want  to  smell  them." 

Josephine  brought  them  to  her.  Terezia  buried  her 
face  in  them.  Her  very  transparent  nightdress  had  no 
sleeves  at  all.  Her  arms  were  magnificent — warm,  living 


138  LOVE 

marble,  if  there  is  such  a  thing.  .  .  .  "What  am  I  to  do, 
darling?"  said  Josephine. 

"Marry  him,  marry  him,  by  all  means,"  said  Terezia. 
"A  happy  marriage  is  the  greatest  bliss  on  earth."  She 
sighed.  By  what  confounded  fate  had  she  escaped  the 
felicity?  Shock-headed  Devin  and  mouthing  Tallien — 
was  there  ever  such  a  pair?  "What  is  he  saying?"  she 
asked  feverishly,  flinging  the  lilies  on  the  counterpane — 
a  great  piece  of  needlework,  executed  at  the  Convent 
of  the  Sacre  Coeur. 

"He  never  talks,"  said  Josephine.    "He  only  stares." 

"Tallien!" 

"I  thought  you  meant  the  general." 

"You  are  monotonous,  darling.  And  Tallien  is  the 
biggest  fool  on  earth.  He  is  so  elementary.  Can't  you 
realize,  the  more  civilized  we  are  the  more  complicated  we 
become?  He  won't  see  anything  but  his  own  insufferable 
person,  decked  out  like  a  bird  of  paradise." 

"Yes,"  said  Josephine  (stepping  on  firm  ground) ;  "his 
clothes  are  wonderful." 

"I  can't  look  after  his  dress  and  his  actions  at  the 
same  time,  can  I?"  said  the  injured  Terezia.  "As  it  is,  life 
isn't  worth  living." 

"Perhaps  he'll  stay  away." 

"From  me?" 

Terezia  held  out  her  hand.  "Kiss  me,  darling.  We've 
talked  enough.  And  thank  you  ever  so  much  for  coming." 


CHAPTER    XV 

QUAI  LA  REINE  was  a  favorite  promenade  in  the 
days  of  Henri  IV.  Fashion  had  flown  elsewhere 
since  then,  and  now  it  lay  practically  deserted,  patro- 
nized by  occasional  pedestrians  who  wanted  a  walk  without 
hazarding  an  encounter  with  friends. 

On  this  particular  June  evening  Madame  Fanny  de 
Beauharnais  was  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  broad 
embankment,  exercising,  on  a  blue  worsted  lead,  her  some- 
what wheezy  poodle.  They  had  the  place  practically  to 
themselves;  except  for  a  nursery-maid  or  two,  a  woman 
of  the  people  resting  on  a  bench — her  big  basket  beside 
her — and  a  pair  of  lovers,  arm-in-arm,  watching  the  eve- 
ning light — in  another  hour  the  sun  would  set — reflected 
in  the  river  and  beautifying  the  congested  city  behind, 
the  promenade  was  empty.  June  at  her  best  must  be 
lovely. 

The  warmth  of  the  day  had  given  place  to  an  indescrib- 
able sense  of  freshness.  The  sun,  all  amber,  rose  and 
wonderful,  spread  out  before  her  like  the  fan  of  Pharaoh's 
daughter.  Madame  Fanny  stood  still,  the  better  to  ap- 
preciate the  view.  Not  a  ripple  stirred  the  waters  of  the 
Seine.  The  green  trees,  planted  at  regular  intervals  close 
to  the  river's  edge,  were  reflected  in  its  glassy  surface 
with  extraordinary  fidelity.  The  gables  of  the  old  man- 
sions— standing  back  from  the  roadway — were  cut  sharp 
and  clean  against  the  sky-line.  From  the  garden  en- 
closures came  the  fragrance  of  blossoming  jessamine  and 
clove  carnations. 

Mrs.  Fanny  was  feeling  rather  depressed.  The  times 
,were  still  bleeding.  Starvation  still  stalked  down  mean 
( streets.  Starving  people  hatch  plots.  Mercifully  they 

139 


140  LOVE 

often  lack  the  vitality  to  explode.  In  the  meanwhile 
their  instigators  die — die,  maybe,  hideously.  And  over 
the  starvation  and  misery  in  Paris  the  leaders  of  resusci- 
tated society — dancing,  feasting,  making  merry.  Indeed 
it's  an  odd  world.  It'll  never  grow  prosaic,  friends,  as 
long  as  personal  ambition  flourishes,  and  callous  indif- 
ference. Madame  Tallien — coveting  popularity — had 
nobly  stepped  into  the  breach.  Her  charity  (so  the 
papers  said)  was  boundless.  Her  entertainments  bril- 
liant (and  costly).  In  the  name  of  the  poor  she  went 
to  great  lengths.  In  her  flaming  chariot  she'd  even  been 
seen  personally  inspecting  condemned  quarters,  protected 
by  detectives,  and  in  the  company  of  M.  Paul  Barras. 
The  people,  at  the  approach  of  her  carriage,  had  crept 
under  cover,  not  deigning  to  give  "Our  Lady  of  Charity" 
a  contemptuous  glance.  It  was  their  way  of  paying  her 
out.  Madame  Tallien  had  been  quite  disappointed  at  the 
empty  streets  .  .  .  only  evil  smells  to  make  it  "true." 
Was  there  unrest  in  Paris?  M.  Barras  said  there  was. 
They  only  wanted  a  match  to  set  the  whole  straw  hive 
blazing.  .  .  .  They  had  expected  great  things,  the  poor. 
The  Revolution  had  been  to  them  as  a  star  out  of  Bethle- 
hem. "Ah,"  said  Madame  Tallien,  putting  her  lace  hand- 
kerchief to  her  nose,  "hide  the  matches,  sir,  and  let's  go 
back.  It  isn't  amusing."  M.  Barras  had  laughed — rather 
on  the  wrong  side  of  his  mouth.  In  truth,  times  were  raw 
and  of  gigantic  significance. 

Madame  Fanny  was  wearing  her  magenta  brocade  gown 
trimmed  with  maize  silk  fringes,  very  long  and  handsome. 
She  wore  white  cotton  gloves,  washed  and  mended.  The 
dress  was  ancient  and  the  gloves  were  a  recent  purchase — 
she  couldn't  afford  kid — put  on  in  honor  of  Madame  Tal- 
lien. Madame  Fanny  proposed  to  pay  La  Chaumiere  an 
evening  call  for  the  dual  purpose  of  inquiring  how  the 
invalid  progressed — the  birth  of  Rose-Marie  Thermidor 
had  been  duly  notified  in  the  Moniteur — and  on  the  chance 
of  being  asked  to  supper.  Mrs.  Fanny  had  not  been  in- 
vited to  so  many  parties  of  late — Madame  Tallien's  charity 


LOVE  141 

balls  were  quite  beyond  her  purse — and  in  consequence  her 
neighbor's  little  boy  had  suffered.  Mrs.  Fanny's  bag — - 
as  often  as  not — went  out  for  an  airing  thin  as  two  pieces 
of  gathered  silk — face  to  face — and  returned  in  the  same 
dejected  condition. 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  sighed  as  she  pulled  at  her 
lap-dog,  panting  on  his  long  blue  string ;  even  he  had  fallen 
away  in  the  figure.  When  did  he  see  a  cutlet  bone? 

Her  enormous  hat  shaded  her  face — it  was  of  yellow 
straw  surmounted  by  a  veritable  mound  of  shaded  plumes 
and  artificial  flowers,  all  very  much  the  worse  for  wear. 

What  a  lonely  spot  it  was,  she  thought,  and  how  beauti- 
ful. The  tender  green  trees,  the  tranquil  river,  the  gauzy 
light  appealed  to  her.  Here  was  a  setting  for  romance. 
Thinking  of  romance,  she  remembered  General  Bonaparte, 
his  meteor-like  career  and  now  his  downfall.  Last  week 
the  general's  name  had  been  struck  off  the  rolls.  He  hadn't 
obeyed  his  orders.  Promoted  to  the  command  of  a  division, 
sent  to  quell  the  insurrection  at  Quiberon,  he  had  refused 
point-blank  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  business,  and 
played  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies.  M.  Tallien  had  been 
delighted.  The  insurgents  weren't  worthy  of  his  powers — 
eh  ?  Hear  him — hear  him !  Ten  thousand  devils — no  ! 
He  had  dared  to  say  as  much  to  laughing  Tallien  and 
silent,  supercilious  Barras.  "Kick  the  fool  out  of  the 
army,"  said  Tallien,  still  laughing.  And  the  Convention 
kicked. 

In  spite  of  his  insubordinate  behavior  General  Bona- 
parte was  too  valuable  an  officer  to  lose  sight  of.  In  con- 
sideration of  his  services  at  Toulon,  he  was  placed  on  the 
Reserve  List.  He  might,  as  M.  Barras  suggested,  still  be 
useful  to  France.  During  the  debate  dealing  with  his  im- 
mediate position,  the  youngest  and  sulkiest  general  in  the 
forces  hadn't  as  much  as  raised  his  eyes  from  the  floor, 
far  less  said  a  word  in  his  own  defence.  Some  of  the 
legislators  had  regarded  him  curiously.  .  .  .  They  had 
(evidently)  been  mistaken  in  him  ...  at  the  first  knot 
he  cut  the  cord  instead  of  unravelling  it  ...  he'd  shown 


142  LOVE 

a  deplorable  want  of  energy.  They  turned  him  out  of 
the  House  without  employment.  You  know  what  that 
means? — you  hard-working  man,  with  an  object  in  view, 
say  a  cosy  little  house  in  Suburbia. 

General  Bonaparte  took  to  tramping  the  streets  again 
— he'd  done  it  before — and  biting  his  nails  and  eating,  at 
haphazard  pothouses,  anything  which  offered.  Out  of  the 
goodness  of  his  heart  M.  Barras  put  him  into  the  Topo- 
graphical Office.  He  showed  an  aptitude  for  the  work. 
Really,  as  M.  Barras  pointed  out  to  his  colleagues,  the 
youthful  general's  maps  were  quite  good  and  his  plans 
lucid,  even  if  mad — ha!  ha!  One  of  his  efforts,  dealing 
with  the  proposed  Italian  invasion,  M.  Barras  had  had 
the  goodness  to  forward  to  General  Augereau,  in  com- 
mand of  the  French  army  at  Nice.  He — the  improvident 
general,  who  hadn't  an  eye  to  his  own  advancement — cler- 
ical work  is  a  three-legged  horse — had  in  less  than  half 
an  hour  evolved  a  plausible  scheme  of  campaign,  bringing 
his  troops  into  Milan  without  the  loss  of  a  single  gun. 
The  paper  had  angered  General  Augereau.  "Let  the 
madman,"  he  wrote  scathingly,  "conduct  his  own  opera- 
tions." Bonaparte — lean  little  clerk,  with  a  goose-quill 
behind  his  ear — had  chuckled  over  the  answer.  He  took 
it  as  a  compliment — eh? — a  compliment  to  his  military 
skill.  Ah,  well,  as  M.  Barras  said,  fools  have  their  own 
ideas.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  with  due  deference  to  General 
Augereau — little  Bonaparte's  paper  had  been  uncom- 
monly good.  Was  he  jealous,  Augereau? 

He  was  seated  by  himself,  not  looking  at  the  prospect. 
Something  dejected  about  his  attitude.  His  figure  was 
relaxed,  his  head  bowed.  Madame  Fanny  passed  him  twice 
before  he  observed  her,  rising  to  return  her  curtsey  with 
an  awkward  bow. 

"A  fine  evening,  sir." 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Such  a  pretty  spot.  We  have  the  same  taste,  gen- 
eral." She  was  thinking  of  Ossian,  and  how  deplorably 


LOVE  143 

thin  and  ill  his  admirer  looked.  There  were  black  shad- 
ows under  his  eyes.  Never  had  his  uniform  looked  rustier 
or  his  hair  more  unkempt.  When  a  man  forgets  appear- 
ances, she  thought — then  God  help  him! 

"I  have  heard  all  about  it,"  she  said  briskly.  "Sit 
down.  You've  acted  quixotically.  Yet  I  don't  blame 
you." 

She  seated  herself  beside  him,  spreading  out  her  flow- 
ing skirts.  The  poodle  curled  himself  at  her  feet  and  went 
to  sleep.  The  general  stared  moodily  in  front  of  him.  He 
didn't  like  interference.  Yet  he  was  starving  for  sym- 
pathy. The  blindness  and  cruelty  of  mankind  was  (ac- 
cording to  him)  beyond  belief.  An  odd  old  woman  was 
better  than  nothing.  He  had  had  his  own  company  for 
two  weeks,  that  and  chattering  monkeys.  (How  the  gen- 
teel gentlemen  at  the  Topographical  Office  would  have 
mouthed  at  his  insolence!)  He  turned  to  her  greedily. 

"I  couldn't  have  done  otherwise,"  he  said.  "There  are 
no  two  courses  in  this  life.  There  is  the  straight  road  and 
nothing  else." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed. 

"They  have  wanted  me  down  ever  since  Toulon."  His 
fierce  eyes  all  the  fiercer  for  their  contemptuous  agony. 
He  flicked  his  boots  with  his  cane.  "No  doubt,  ma'am, 
I've  been  presumptuous  and  ambitious." 

She  nodded  her  head  violently  under  her  grotesque  hat. 
"I  admire  you,"  she  said. 

He  whistled.  "In  future,  ma'am,  I'll  lock  the  stable 
door."  He  flung  back  his  head.  "They're  a  set  of  thiev- 
ish rascals.  Part  of  their  policy.  Might  is  right.  Never 
fear,  madam.  I'm  up  to  my  enemies.  I'll  be  even  with 
them.  In  fact" — he  smiled — "it  is  my  intention  to  go 
ahead  of  'em,  at  a  brisk  trot,  ma'am.  See  if  I  don't !" 
He  looked  at  her  cunningly.  "It  is  all  in  a  piece  with  my 
game.  They  are  playing  into  my  hands."  He  stretched 
them  out,  looking  at  them  with  pride.  "I'll  work  out  my 
own  salvation." 

"A  nice  way  of  setting  about  it.    I  am  ashamed  of  you, 


144  LOVE 

general.  My  father  was  an  army  man.  My  husband  died 
for  his  country.  Up  and  wort  sir." 

"I  never  leave  off " 

"You  know  what  I  mean. 

"No,  ma'am."  His  voice  hald  grown  cold.  Again  he 
flicked  at  his  boots — viciously.  "If  I  only  had  my  op- 
portunity !" 

"It'll  come,"  said  Madame  Fanny  soothingly.  "There 
isn't  a  creature  alive  who  isn't  offered  something." 

"Ah!" 

Her  words  were  honey  to  him.  From  rather  a  ridicu- 
lous old  lady  she  had  suddenly  developed  into  a  prophetess, 
a  goddess,  a  seer. 

He  hung  upon  her  painted  lips,  worshipping  her  with 
his  body  and  his  soul.  Even  she,  conscious  of  tremendous 
issues,  trembled.  He  was  quaking  all  over. 

"I  won't  be  beaten,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "Is  it 
likely?  I,  Bonaparte!  Listen,  ma'am."  He  went  into 
a  rhapsody  over  his  past  and  his  future.  The  setting 
sun  was  a  pale  reflection  of  his  elation.  She  didn't  inter- 
rupt him.  Once  she  put  out  her  foot  and  touched  her 
sleeping  dog.  His  labored  breathing  seemed  inappropriate 
to  the  occasion.  The  general  folded  his  arms  across  his 
chest — a  favorite  gesture  of  his. 

"At  six  years  old,"  he  said,  "I  foamed  at  the  mouth, 
rolling  on  the  ground  at  some  imaginary  insult — true 
enough,  I  daresay.  If  my  mother  heard  of  it,  she'd  beat 
me.  No  one  else  dared  touch  me.  Joseph  did  once,  and 
I  bit  his  hand."  He  laughed  with  impish  pleasure. 
"Joseph  and  such  as  he — bah!  Madam,  I  am  not  in  the 
least  afraid." 

"We  must  all  curb  ourselves,"  she  began,  feeling  it  her 
duty  to  check  this  impetuous  young  man,  who  had  her 
sympathy. 

"There  was  a  teacher  I  respected.  An  old  mathe- 
matician, ma'am,  with  silver  hair.  .  .  .  He  believed  in 
me."  (The  caressing  wonder  of  his  voice!)  "He  coun- 
selled me  to  stand  firm.  'Bonaparte,'  he  said — I  can  see 


LOVE  145 

him  in  our  bleak  play-alley — we  had  it  to  ourselves  and  a 
piping  wind — 'be  true  to  yourself  .  .  .  another  turn  down 
the  road,  and  you  will  know.'  I  kissed  the  hem  of  his 
robe.  'Whatever  you  do,  do  well.'  .  .  .  There  is  nothing 
really  small  in  life,  madam.  I  could  hate  and  I  could  love 
before  most  of  us  have  done  lapping  milk." 

She  held  her  peace. 

The  shadows  were  lengthening.  The  last  nursemaid 
had  gone  home.  The  old  woman  and  her  huge  basket 
had  moved  on.  The  lovers  were  out  of  sight.  The  gen- 
eral practically  had  the  world  to  himself.  A  faint  crescent 
moon  showed  above  the  horizon.  The  night  was  breath- 
lessly still,  humid,  expectant.  The  very  houses,  surround- 
ing them,  appeared  unreal,  as  castles  floating  in  the 
clouds.  On  a  still  night  you  can  see  their  reflections  in 
the  deep  waters  beneath — trace  each  buttress,  each  castel- 
lated tower.  Sometimes  shadows  are  portentous. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  laughed,  laughed  for  sheer 
joy  of  living.  The  world  was  shouting  at  him  .  .  .  his 
world!  The  silence  was  filled  with  ten  thousand  voices, 
all  in  his  favor.  Not  one  dissentient  note ;  not  one.  He 
stood  there,  a  slender  figure  against  the  fading  light, 
strongly  knit,  inexorable. 

"I'll  go  on,"  he  said.    "From  this  day  forward.    Amen." 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  thin  hands.  Her  cotton 
gloves  shone  white. 

"I  have,  alas,  no  influence  at  Court.  I  mean  with  these 
terrible  people.  I'd  do  anything  to  help  you,  sir." 

"You  have,"  he  said.  He  raised  one  of  her  hands  to 
his  lips.  "I  thank  you,  madam.  I  won't  forget  you. 
You  can  rely  upon  my  gratitude." 

"Dear  general!" 

She  rose,  quite  embarrassed.  "I  must  be  going,  sir.  I 
am  calling  at  La  Chaumiere.  It  is  late  as  it  is." 

"Good-bye,  madam." 

He  spoke  humbly,  bending  down  to  caress  her  dog. 
"You  have  a  pretty  dog  there,  ma'am."  There  was  a 
catch  in  his  voice.  You  might  say  he  was  choking  down  a 


146  LOVE 

sob,  ashamed  to  be  seen  crying  in  the  twilight.  .  .  .  June 
around  them,  tender  June.  And  infinite  possibility. 

"My  niece,  Josephine,  might  speak  to  M.  Barras.  He's 
a  particular  friend  of  hers." 

"Josephine!"  he  repeated.  He  recollected  himself; 
blushed  furiously.  Aunt  Fanny's  poodle  was  pulling  at  his 
lead.  "I  have  met  the  lady,"  he  said.  "I  admire  her 
very  much." 

Aunt  Fanny  sighed.  "Yes,  sir,  she  is  a  very  attractive 
woman.  She  ought  to  marry." 

He  took  a  deep  breath.  He  leaned  towards  her — al- 
most menacingly.  "Tell  me,"  he  said  tragically,  "is  there 
anyone  in  particular — — " 

"No,  sir,  not  that  I  know  of.  Josephine  isn't  easily 
pleased." 

"What  does  she  like— hem?" 

He  peered  beneath  her  hat,  rudely.  "What  does  she 
want,  eh?'* 

"In  her  future  husband,  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

He  laughed  shrilly.  "Josephine's  husband!  Exactly. 
Describe  him,  and  I'll  search  the  earth  to  find  him.  Ha ! 
ha!" 

"She  wants  courage,"  said  Aunt*Fanny  slowly,  empha- 
sizing her  words  with  nods.  "Courage,  sir;  ambition  and 
—love." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"All  the  world,  sir." 

"I'll  satisfy  her,  madam,  if  I  die  for  it." 

Aunt  Fanny  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  live  for  her?"  she  suggested. 
"Au  revoir,  general.  And  may  you  succeed." 

He  wanted  to  run  after  her  and  embrace  her.  What 
an  angel  of  mercy !  How  she  had  grasped  his  situation ! 
What  kindness!  What  common-sense! 

"Madam,"  he  called  triumphantly.  "She  is  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  existence,  and  I  love  her,  I,  a  dis- 
graced soldier  without  a  penny  in  the  world."  He  walked 
home  in  brilliant  spirits.  He  was  all  audacity.  For  three 


LOVE  147 

hours,  wrapped  in  his  grey  cloak,  he  stood  outside  her — 
Josephine's — darkened  windows.  Not  a  glimmer  of  light 
from  within.  He  was  rewarded  for  his  patience  by  the 
sight  of  M.  Barras'  heavy  chariot  stopping  at  her  door, 
and  Josephine  herself,  wrapped  in  a  filmy  cloak  all  lace 
and  chiffon.  He  didn't  dare  breathe — far  less  accost 
her.  She  touched  the  bell,  or  rather  the  footman  did  it 
for  her.  .  .  "Good-night;  thank  you  so  much."  (Wasn't 
her  voice  like  the  voice  of  Eden?)  He  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  little  ankles  as  she  ran  up  the  steps  and  the  hall 
door  shut  behind  her.  .  .  .  How  merciful  was  Providence ! 
A  repentant  young  man  walked  to  his  home — attic,  very 
miserably  furnished,  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis — full  of  golden 
resolves. 

She — Josephine — slept.  He — Bonaparte — lay  awake, 
too  happy  to  sleep.  At  three  o'clock  he  rose,  refreshed 
for  the  day's  business  .  .  .  work — work — work.  He  put 
her  in  front  of  him — his  goddess,  his  dream,  his  woman. 
It  all  works  out  the  same — the  star  of  human  delusion, 
achievement,  destiny — call  it  what  you  will.  He  called 
it  glory.  And  a  very  fine  name  it  is. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

/CLEMENTINE    held    the    bedroom    candlestick,    the 

^  better  to  guide  her  mistress. 
"There,  ma'am;  mind  that  step." 

Clementine  was  always  in  a  good  temper,  even  if  you 
called  her  up  at  night  after  a  hard  day's  work.  She  had 
stood  at  the  tub  since  five  in  the  morning,  getting  the  bi- 
monthly washing  done.  Not  so  many  clothes  as  you'd 
imagine.  Madame  Josephine  de  Beauharnais  considered 
herself  a  widow  in  impecunious  circumstances.  It  was 
her  clear  duty  to  marry  a  rich  man.  As  difficult  to  find 
as  a  needle  in  a  haystack  in  those  days  in  France,  if  you 
barred  the  "creatures"  who  had  enriched  themselves  dur- 
ing the  Revolution:  Fieron,  Fouche,  Tallien,  and  such 
as  they,  filled  Josephine  with  lively  disgust.  She  couldn't 
marry  a  butcher — could  she?  Or  a  thief?  She  consid- 
ered General  Hoche's  suit  .  .  .  and  General  Augereau, 
both  gentlemen  of  unimpeachable  honor  .  .  .  dull,  you 
know.  Anyhow,  she  didn't  fancy  them.  Surely  a  woman 
ought  to  consider  her  own  feelings  even  in  a  second  mar- 
riage. 

Gentle  Josephine  had  a  shade  of  obstinacy  in  her  char- 
acter. At  first  the  homage,  strange  and  silent,  of  General 
Bonaparte  only  amused  her.  A  ridiculous  idea!  Marry 
him!  Marry  General  Puss-in-Boots,  saddled  with  impos- 
sible relations,  and  half  a  savage — what  are  Corsicans  but 
out-and-out  savages?  Besides,  he  hadn't  a  penny.  M. 
Barras  (her  adviser  and  her  lover)  agreed.  Counted  in 
pennies,  his  fortune — the  fortune  of  General  Napoleon 
Bonaparte — wasn't  great.  In  other  respects  he  stood  for 
a  round  figure.  Had  madame  considered  the  fiery  ambi- 
tion of  her  young  admirer?  His  conceit — colossal!  His 

148 


LOVE  149 

merits — truly,  his  merits  were  not  to  be  despised.  He, 
Barras,  was  ready  to  wager  his  right  hand  that  General 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  would  achieve  whatever  he  desired. 
M.  Barras'  wisdom  wasn't  lost  on  Madame  Beauharnais. 
She'd  rather  like  to  marry  a  man  who  was  sure  of  getting 
his  own  way  in  the  world.  What  she  disliked  (intensely) 
was  the  feeling  that  M.  Barras  recommended  the  Corsican 
to  her  kind  consideration,  not  to  please  her — Josephine 
— not  to  please  himself,  but  to  gain  favor  with  Notre 
Dame  de  Charite — in  other  words,  that  hateful  Terezia 
Tallien.  She  encouraged  the  match,  to  get  rid  of  "darling 
Josephine"  in  an  awkward  place.  Darling  Josephine  was 
too  intimate  at  the  Luxembourg  to  fit  in  with  Madame 
Tallien's  immediate  plans.  She  wanted  undisputed  rule. 
That — or  nothing.  Infatuated  M.  Barras  would  have 
agreed  to  anything  as  long  as  it  assured  him  of  her  devo- 
tion. We  take  it  Terezia  could  be  charming  when  she 
wanted  to.  We  can  see  her  leading  pompous,  rather 
foolish,  M.  Barras  by  her  little  finger  into  the  seventh 
earth  of  delight. 

Clementine  removed  her  mistress's  cloak,  unlaced  her 
shoes,  and  listened  with  interest  to  madame's  talk. 

"I've  had  a  lovely  time.  Lamartine's  new  rooms  are 
magnificent.  M.  Ouvrad  is  a  good  host.  Think  now, 
Clementine !  we  started  supper  with  oysters  brought  all 
the  way  from  the  Black  Sea.  I  don't  know  where  it  is. 
Do  you?  The  general  wasn't  there.  Nor  Madame  Tal- 
lien. They  had  both  been  invited.  We  were  twenty. 
Eight  courses.  I  love  creme  au  nougat.  I  hope  I  shan't 
be  ill.  Has  anyone  called?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

Clementine  pattered  round  the  room  in  her  bare  feet. 
She  wore  a  short  cotton  petticoat  and  a  striped  bed- 
jacket.  Her  brown  hair  was  tightly  plaited  in  two  plaits. 
She  had  got  out  of  bed  to  let  madame  in.  She  was  a 
light  sleeper,  Clementine.  Never  had  she  kept  madame 
waiting  on  the  doorstep. 

"Madame  de  Stael  was  there,  very  peevish  about  some- 


150  LOVE 

thing  or  other.  And  quite  ridiculous  in  her  admiration 
for  the  general.  As  if  he'd  look  at  her.  Clementine,  do 
you  think  pink  suits  me?" 

The  widow  sighed  as  she  slipped  her  nightdress  over  her 
head  and  got  into  bed.  Fortune  grunted.  You  remem- 
ber her  little  dog,  who  had  behaved  as  a  hero  at  Les 
Cannes,  and  who  always  slept  on  the  foot  of  her  bed? 
Poor  darling,  she  said,  why  shouldn't  he  if  he  liked  to? 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,  Clementine,  for  the  best. 
Such  a  lover!  He  is  so  awkward,  he  puts  my  teeth  on 
edge.  Yet  he  is  rather  fascinating." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  are  half  asleep,  girl.     What's  the  time?" 

"Close  on  three,  ma'am." 

"Wake  me  at  eleven.  If  the  general  calls,  I'll  see  him. 
And  I'll  wear  my  new  pink  muslin.  Fortune,  if  you  are 
a  brave  dog,  I'm  a  brave  woman.  It  is  a  terrible  risk  to 
marry  a  man  you  know  nothing  about.  If  he'd  only 
brush  his  hair!  What  do  they  say  in  Paris?" 

Clementine  had  put  out  the  candle. 

"He's  a  hero,  ma'am.  There  is  nobody  a  patch  on 
General  Napoleon  Bonaparte." 

In  the  darkness  her  maid's  voice  sounded  very  con- 
vincing. 

"That's   nice,"   murmured   Josephine. 

He  didn't  come  to  lunch.  Only  Aunt  Fanny  had  the 
benefit  of  the  new  pink  muslin.  She,  Aunt  Fanny,  was 
bristling  with  gossip.  Had  Josephine  heard  that  M. 
Charles  Maurice  de  Talleyrand  hadn't  only  arrived  in 
Paris  but  had  immediately  been  offered  the  portfolio  of 
Foreign  Affairs,  which  post  he  had  been  pleased  to  accept  ? 
He  was  staying  at  the  Hotel  Gallifet  in  the  Rue  du  Bac. 
He  had  arrived  with  an  enormous  quantity  of  luggage. 
And  a  lady.  A  Madame  Catherine  Grand.  "A  disrepu- 
table person,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Madame  de  Beau- 
harnais  the  elder.  "M.  de  Talleyrand  allows  himself  un- 
limited freedom  both  in  his  actions  and  in  his  speech.  As 


LOVE  151 

the  Bishop  of  Autun  he  was  celebrated  for  his  sharpness. 
To  think  how  that  man  has  changed!" 

"How?"  said  Josephine,  with  no  interest  at  all.  She 
was  thinking  of  her  own  plans. 

"They  say  he  is  grown  so  humble.  America  and  ad- 
versity have  taught  him  a  lesson.  I  wonder  if  it's  true? 
His  mother  was  a  most  distinguished  lady." 

"Aunt  Fanny,  do  advise  me.  Shall  I  marry  the  little 
general?  Not  that  he  has  proposed.  He's  too  shy  for 
words.  But  if  I  want  him  I  know  I  can  have  him." 

"You  could  not  do  better,  Josephine.     He's  splendid." 

Aunt  Fanny  laid  down  her  knitting-needles.  "Don't 
treat  him  badly,"  she  said  severely.  "He  has  got  a  sensi- 
tive, loving  heart.  A  heart  which  is  easily  wounded.  He 
is  proud  as — a  Beauharnais." 

"Auntie  darling,  he's  not  of  our  class." 

"What  of  that?  Quarterings  won't  give  a  man 
brains " 

"Alexandre  was  quite  clever " 

"I  wasn't  alluding  to  my  dear  defunct  nephew.  Barras, 
for  instance " 

"Isn't  Terezia  lucky?" 

"Don't  speak  of  her." 

"She's  very  fortunate."  (Josephine  sighed.)  "And 
very  beautiful.  Spiteful  cat !"  She  took  out  her  handker- 
chief and  dabbed  her  eyes.  "Life's  miserable.  Poor  dar- 
ling M.  Barras!  Don't  scold  me,  Aunt  Fanny.  .  .  .  I'll 
.  .  .  I'll  do  my  duty." 

"There's  nothing  to  cry  over,  child.  God  bless  my 
heart — I'd  marry  him  myself  if  he  asked  me !" 

Josephine  had  to  laugh.  The  idea  of  General  Puss-in- 
Boots  and  Aunt  Fanny  as  a  couple  was  too  funny  for 
words. 

"I've  got  to  train  him  first,"  said  Josephine.  "No  more 
hanging  about  back  doors.  What's  he  afraid  of?  No 
one  would  want  to  eat  him,  I'm  sure.  What  puts  on 
flesh?" 

"Happiness,"  said  Aunt  Fanny  promptly.     "Make  him 


152  LOVE 

happy,  Josephine,  and  he'll  forget  to  be  shy.  And  he'll 
grow  quite  handsome." 

"The  idea!  He's  got  to  make  me  happy.  You  don't 
think  people  will  laugh  at  me,  do  you?" 

Madame  Fanny  never  mentioned  to  her  niece  the  talk 
she  had  had  with  the  disgraced  general  on  the  embank- 
ment. She  was  too  wise.  Instinctively  she  knew  the 
general  wouldn't  have  liked  it. 

"I'm  positive  he'll  get  on  in  the  world,"  she  said. 

"Maybe,"  said  Josephine  dryly.  "But  you  must  admit 
at  the  present  moment  he  has  behaved  sillily.  If  he  is  not 
reinstated  in  the  army  I  won't  marry  him.  I  am  only 
sacrificing  myself  for  the  sake  of  the  children.  Their 
step-father  must  have  a  solid  position." 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Aunt  Fanny,  engrossed  with 
her  heel.  "One — two — three Don't  talk,  Josephine." 

We  take  Josephine's  part.  Terezia  was  too  greedy  for 
words.  She  had  practically  pocketed  M.  Paul  Barras, 
and  now  she  was  anxious  to  annex  the  "little"  general. 
Not  that  she  would  have  given  him  a  glance  if  he  hadn't 
been  rude.  She  had  actually  sent  him  an  invitation  for  her 
Wednesdays,  and  he'd  taken  no  more  notice  of  her  card 
than  if  it  had  been  a  bill. 

Madame  Tallien's  Wednesdays  leaped  into  high  fashion 
at  once.  Her  rooms  were  thronged  to  suffocation.  In 
their  own  interests  her  friends  agreed  it  would  be  all  the 
better  when  she  moved  into  the  Luxembourg  as  M.  Barras' 
official  mistress  and  hostess. 

Such  a  queer  crowd  she  entertained :  politicians ;  finan- 
ciers ;  poets ;  artists ;  aristocrats.  They  were  coming  back 
again.  Every  week  the  influx  was  greater.  Terezia  re- 
ceived everyone  with  the  same  radiant  welcome.  Her  cook 
was  second  to  none:  her  suppers  famous.  In  those  days 
you  would  have  run  a  long  way  for  a  cutlet.  The  meat  at 
La  Chaumiere  was  exquisitely  tender,  and  always  ample 
for  everybody.  No  stint  anywhere,  neither  in  food,  flowers 
nor  liberty.  And  every  Wednesday  the  hostess  had  a  sur- 


LOVE  153 

prise  for  her  friends.  One  Wednesday  it  was  M.  de  Tal- 
leyrand— not  altered  an  hour,  just  as  charming  and  ele- 
gant as  ever.  Another  Wednesday  she  brought  forward 
ji  musician,  in  corduroy,  who  played  "divinely."  His  name 
was  Souci — Sans-Souci.  He  was  brought  by  Tallien.  He 
belonged  to  The  Cow.  The  Cow?  A  disreputable  and 
fascinating  tavern  in  the  Rue  des  Quatre  Vents. 

Madame  Tallien  put  down  General  Bonaparte  as  her 
chief  attraction  for  her  next  party.  "Do  come,  dear 
friend,"  she  wrote.  "A  great  man  has  no  right  to  hide 
himself.  I  promise  to  be  kind  to  you." 

It  didn't  fetch  him,  not  him!  The  more  you  touch  a 
snail  the  more  he  retreats  into  his  shell.  Reptile ! 

Reptile  or  not,  he  was  an  excessively  busy  man.  He 
wasn't  popular  at  the  Topographical  Office.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  zeal  offended  his  fellow-clerks.  They  bit  their 
jealous  tongues  at  the  very  sight  of  him.  How  could  a 
man  exist  without  food,  without  pleasure,  without  sleep? 
Except  he's  in  the  pay  of  the  devil.  No  one  had  his 
doubts  where  the  general  got  his  superhuman  energy  and 
his  superhuman  nastiness.  A  devil  of  a  fellow  for  giving 
himself  airs!  He  worked  for  twenty,  and  treated  every- 
one as  dirt  beneath  his  feet. 

They — his  fellow-clerks — got  hold  of  the  story  of  his 
courtship.  The  general,  it  seemed,  was  in  love — in  love 
with  a  great  lady.  Damn  his  impudence!  Like  him, 
wasn't  it?  to  disobey  his  commanding  officers.  He  had 
deliberately  refused  Quiberon.  M.  Tallien  had  been  sent 
in  his  place. 

The  general  said  nothing  to  his  tormentors  (fools!). 
But  he  was  known  to  write  love-letters  to  the  Widow 
Beauharnais.  His  writing  was  very  illegible  and  pain- 
fully nervous.  However,  the  matter  was  plain  enough,  we 
fancy  ...  he  adored  her — he  adored  her.  Wherever  he 
went  and  whatever  he  did,  he  looked  up  to  her  as  to  his 
star — his  guiding-star. 

As  you  can  realize  for  yourself  in  a  winking,  Terezia 
Tallien  was  spilling  her  breath  in  whistling  for  him  .  .  . 


154  LOVE 

he  loved  Josephine — he  loved  her.  Very  often  at  this  try- 
ing period — he  wasn't  certain  of  her — he'd  never  touch 
food  for  days  on  end.  What  kept  him  alive?  Love? 
No;  imagination.  He  could  see  through  a  brick  wall, 
sirs,  and  what  he  saw  was  altogether  after  his  own  heart. 
No  wonder  he  could  afford  to  insult  his  fellow-clerks. 
They  didn't  matter.  All  his  life  the  general  had  a  vast 
contempt  for  humanity. 

One  June  morning  he  met  Mademoiselle  Madeleine's 
sister  just  outside  his  tall  tenement  house.  The  sun  was  on 
their  side  of  the  street.  She  recognized  the  little  general 
and  returned  his  deferential  salute  with  a  cordial  smile. 

"Thank  you  sir,"  she  said,  "for  the  beautiful  fan  you 
sent  me." 

"I  am  so  glad  you  liked  it,"  he  said.  He  had  spent 
the  best  part  of  an  afternoon  in  finding  something  to 
please  her — no,  to  please  himself.  He  had  fastidious  taste, 
the  general.  And  he  had  scowled  terrifically  at  the  polite 
shopman  when  he'd  asked  a  heavy  sum  for  his  purchase. 
As  it  happened,  General  Bonaparte  had  three  soils  in  his 
pocket.  "Put  it  down  to  my  account,"  he'd  said  in  his 
overbearing  manner.  In  fact,  much  against  the  pro- 
prietor's conscience  he'd  obliged  him.  When  the  general's 
eyes  flashed  there  was  no  disobeying  him  or  venturing  an 
opinion  against  his.  It  was  rank  lunacy  to  trust  a  half- 
pay  officer.  .  .  . 

That  encounter  pleased  the  general.  They  talked  to- 
gether for  a  little  while,  with  mademoiselle's  servant  in 
the  background.  He  felicitated  her  on  her  coming  mar- 
riage. "Mademoiselle,"  he'd  said,  "your  sole  purpose  in 
life  is  to  be  a  good  wife.  A  good  woman  is  God's  best 
creation." 

Whereupon  he'd  raised  his  hat  and  torn  down  the 
street  as  a  whirlwind.  Mademoiselle  Madeleine's  sister 
had  looked  after  him  with  some  astonishment.  M.  le  cousin, 
her  fiance,  was  such  a  very  stolid  young  man.  "Dear, 
dear!"  she  said;  "he's  very  remarkable." 


LOVE  155 

That  evening  General  Bonaparte  found  another  note 
from  La  Chaumiere  on  his  crowded  table.  (He  wasn't  a 
tidy  man,  or  his  papers  had  a  way  of  accumulating.) 

He  tore  it  open  with  a  sardonic  expression. 

"DEAR  GENERAL"  (she  wrote), — "If  you  have  nothing 
better  to  do,  Saturday  next,  this  day  week,  do  come  and 
have  supper  with  me.  Eight  o'clock.  I'll  be  quite  alone. 
Your  sincere  friend, 

"TEREZIA  TALLIEN." 


CHAPTER   XVII 

TVyTADAME  TALLIEN  stood  drumming  her  fingers  on 
•*•*••>  a  window-pane  in  her  sitting-room.  She  had  come 
downstairs  an  hour  or  two  ago,  exquisitely  dressed;  her 
hair  done  in  a  new  style — which  might  best  be  called  elab- 
orate simplicity — it  was  smoothly  parted  on  each  side 
of  her  temples,  waved  and  gathered  in  a  great  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  neck.  Only  the  tips  of  her  ears  were  visible, 
each  scintillating  with  a  diamond  solitaire.  Her  bare  neck 
was  covered  in  an  old  Mechlin  scarf;  her  dress  shimmered 
in  faintest  rose,  deepening  at  the  waist  to  a  more  de- 
cided pink. 

She  had  gone  leisurely  about  her  pretty  room  until  she 
had  adjusted  it  to  her  taste.  From  her  flower-garden 
she  had  ordered  an  armful  of  white  and  pink  roses.  These 
she  had  herself  arranged  with  considerable  effect.  One 
bunch  stood  on  a  bracket — relieving  the  grey  satin  wall; 
another  on  the  table,  by  the  great  sofa  piled  with  delicate- 
colored  cushions;  and  she  placed  a  big  bowl  on  the  little 
supper-table  (laid  for  two)  standing  by  the  corner  win- 
dow. The  evening  sun  struck  the  table  until  the  crystal, 
the  china  and  the  silver  glittered  and  sparkled  as  in  a 
wave  of  fire.  Outside  in  the  garden,  the  June  birds  were 
warbling  good-night  to  each  other.  .  .  . 

As  Terezia  stood  by  the  window — her  golden  head  bent 
in  contemplation,  her  left  hand  tapping  the  shining  win- 
dow-pane— she  smiled. 

Very  gently  she  moved  across  the  room  and  touched 
the  bell. 

"Pierre,"  she  said  to  the  man-servant,  "When  I  ring, 
bring  in  the  supper;  not  before.  And  I  am  not  at  home 
to  anyone  else.  You  understand?" 

156 


LOVE  157 

She  stood  upright,  modestly  looking  at  the  tips  of  her 
satin  shoes — the  setting  sun  shining  on  her  lovely  hair 
and  on  her  matchless  shoulders. 

"Yes,  madam." 

When  she  looked  up,  Pierre  had  gone  out  to  answer  the 
bell.  It  pealed  through  the  house  with  terrific  energy. 

Terezia  didn't  move,  but  she  laughed  good-temperedly. 
"How  silly  of  me,"  she  mused,  "ever  to  have  had  two 
opinions  on  his  behavior !  It  is  like  Bonaparte  to  be  rude, 
and  it  is  like  a  man  to  come." 

As  it  happened,  in  the  full-length  mirror  she  saw  her 
own  reflection,  and — behind  her  head — she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  evening  sky,  and  in  a  crystal  bowl  a  bunch 
of  freshly-gathered  roses.  .  .  . 

She  moved  softly  across  the  room  and  sat  down  on  the 
sofa,  her  back  to  the  little  supper-table,  her  face  towards 
the  principal  entrance  door.  She  bent  forward  and  took 
up  from  the  kidney-shaped  satin-wood  table  a  little  wax 
taper  which  lay  beside  the  tinder-box.  .  .  .  No,  it  was  too 
early  for  candles.  The  sunset  was  all  the  light  she  needed. 
It  gave  an  air  of  intimacy  to  herself  and  to  the  little 
room — arranged  in  a  very  characteristic  manner.  It  was 
a  charming  sitting-room  and  rather  luxurious  in  its  ap- 
pointments. .  .  .  After  a  white- washed  attic,  with  a  single 
uncurtained  dormer  window,  it  would  certainly  please  the 
eye.  General  Bonaparte  was  an  excessively  difficult  man 
to  catch  by  purely  outside  effects.  .  .  .  Well,  she  would 
strike  deeper.  ...  A  flush  dyed  her  face — she  looked 
very  tender,  very  young  and  rather  sorrowful  as  the 
double  doors  were  flung  wide  open  and  Pierre  announced 
her  visitor: 

"General  Bonaparte." 

"How  good  of  you  to  come,"  she  said,  half  rising,  and 
then  sinking  back  again  against  her  cushions. 

Pierre  shut  the  door  behind  him  very  carefully. 

General  Bonaparte  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

OUSPICION,  once  awake,  isn't  easily  sent  to  sleep  again. 
^  The  best  nursemaid  is  Love.  There  wasn't  any  love 
lost  between  them.  As  we  know,  he  instinctively  disliked 
her.  She  was  an  overpowering1  woman — or  say  Beauty 
(with  a  capital).  She  made  capital  out  of  her  face  and 
put  a  great  price  on  her  figure — for  sale.  At  the  present 
moment  all  Paris  knew  Paul  Barras  was  speculating  in 
that  quarter.  He  wanted  something  showy  for  his  money, 
so  they  said.  At  the  Luxembourg  she'd  do  the  honors 
magnificently.  You  couldn't  put  her  in  too  big  a  frame. 
She  was  lost  at  La  Chaumiere,  much  as  a  brilliant  jewel 
would  be  lost  on  a  child's  head.  The  same  people,  who 
thronged  the  humble  "cottage,"  would  tread  on  each  other's 
toes  in  the  palace.  In  both  places  Terezia  would  smile. 
Give  her  success  and  she  would  always  smile.  Behold, 
even  now  she  was  displaying  her  pearly  teeth  to  Bona- 
parte. 

"Take  a  seat,  general.  How  are  you?  I  haven't  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  for  ever  so  long." 

Her  smile  was  quite  conventional,  but  her  gesture  was 
intimate. 

She  motioned  him  to  a  little  chair  by  the  great  sofa 
(presumably,  if  he  was  a  "good"  boy,  she'd  presently  give 
him  a  place  by  her  side).  He  didn't  look  a  good  boy,  but 
a  remarkably  stubborn  one.  He  sat  down  gingerly  at  the 
extreme  edge  of  his  seat,  bolt  upright,  staring  above  her 
head  at  a  certain  point  on  the  wall.  Enough  to  annoy 
anyone.  Terezia's  white  wings  ruffled.  She  had  been  in 
an  "angelic"  mood.  (We  give  her  own  version.)  It  is 
far  better  to  let  people  speak  for  themselves.  A  third 
person  never  gets  the  right  touch.  We'll  either  paint  her 
too  thinly  or  colour  her  over-much.  Justice,  brothers,  be- 

158 


LOVE  159 

fore  everything.  Justice  to  the  general  and  justice  to 
the  lady ;  both  rather  extraordinarily  in  their  respective 
classes. 

She  eyed  him  under  her  veiled  lashes,  making  some  polite 
remark  which  he  answered  formally.  Uphill  work  wasn't 
in  it !  It  was,  as  she  said,  like  pulling  teeth  out  of  a 
serpent's  head.  She  was  sure  he  had  something  up  his 
mind.  He  wasn't  half  as  dense  as  he  looked.  He  was 
merely  behaving  like  a  ploughman  to  annoy  her.  Well, 
she  wouldn't  be  annoyed.  She  wouldn't  let  him  have  that 
satisfaction.  He  shouldn't  go  back  to  Josephine  and  tell 
her — all  kinds  of  things.  Josephine  would  question  him. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "needless  to  say,  our  interview  is  en- 
tirely of  a  private  character.  You  mustn't  mention  to 
anyone  that  you  have  been  here.  One  can't  be  too  care- 
ful. Paris  is  full  of  eyes — and  voices."  She  shook  her 
golden  curls  at  him  and  rearranged  her  lace  scarf  (dis- 
closing rather  more  bos6m  than  before). 

He  lowered  his  eyes.     "Yes,  madam,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  help  you,"  she  continued,  condescendingly. 
"Can't  you  see  you  are  fumbling  in  the  dark?  Strike  at 
them!  One  sharp  blow ' 

"In  what  direction?" 

"Hush !  General,  I'm  your  friend.  If  I  help  you,  you 
must  help  me." 

"In  what  direction?" 

"Push  Tallien." 

"In  what  direction?" 

She  lay  back  amongst  her  cushions.  "Up — up — up," 
she  said,  pointing  her  right  hand  towards  the  ceiling. 
"You  can't  place  him  too  high  to  please  me." 

"He'll  fall  and  hurt  himself." 

"If  he's  a  fool  he's  a  fool.  I've  married  him  and  I  want 
to  do  the  best  I  can " 

"For  yourself?" 

"Why  not?  Do  you  think  I  care  about  him?  I'm 
married  to  the  greatest  coward  in  France." 

"What  matter?     He  is  played  out." 


160  LOVE 

Terezia  felt  interested.  The  very  look  he  gave  her 
stimulated  her  fancy — not  for  politics,  but  for  the  man. 
Perhaps  Josephine  wouldn't  do  so  badly?  There  was  a 
certain  reserve  of  strength  in  him  which  struck  her  favor- 
ably ...  his  hair  was  ridiculous;  his  thinness  almost 
laughable,  and  his  clothes  wretchedly  shabby.  .  .  . 

"Everyone  is  so  poor,"  she  said.  "Money  would  help 
us." 

"I  am  rich,"  he  said. 

"Indeed?"  she  replied,  trying  to  look  grave.  "Fie, 
general!  you  are  telling  me  a  story." 

He  smiled.     "A  very  true  one.     I  believe  in  it." 

"In  other  words,  you  believe  in  yourself?  That's  right. 
I  always  do.  Not  that  there  is  the  least  comparison  be- 
tween us.  I  am  merely  a  beautiful  woman." 

"A  very  beautiful  woman,"  he  amended. 

She  closed  her  eyes  .  .  .  la-la!  who'd  have  thought  it! 
"If,  sir,  you  had  to  choose,  what  would  you  be?  Give  me 
the  whole  of  your  confidence  and  I'll  give  you  the  whole 
of  my  heart." 

"Above  all,  your  lover,  ma'am." 

"Go  on." 

"I  wouldn't  treat  you  well." 

"I  know  that." 

"You'd  be  afraid  of  me " 

"Afraid?  Oh,  no;  you  are  wrong.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
men." 

"I'm  neither  a  Barras  nor  a  Tallien." 

She  opened  her  eyes.  Was  he  making  fun  of  her?  Did 
he  dare?  He  hadn't  changed  his  position.  He  hadn't 
changed  his  expression;  it  was  icy-cold.  In  fact,  he  put 
her  on  her  mettle.  She'd  win  through — she'd  force  him  to 
his  knees;  she'd  play  upon  him  for  all  she  was  worth! 
And,  as  we  have  already  told  you,  Madame  Tallien  put 
her  own  value  above  the  price  of  rubies.  ...  It  is 
strange  how  little  we  know  ourselves.  Though  we  have 
only  stumbled  across  her — picked  her  out  o*  history,  as 
you  would  a  gleaming  and  rather  meretricious  jewel  out 


LOVE  161 

of  a  jeweller's  tray,  caught  by  its  size  or  coloring  or 
something — we  have  already  gauged  her  place  amongst 
women — undeniably  a  bad  one.  Mr.  Dickens  wouldn't 
have  looked  at  her.  Mr.TThackeray  wouldn't  have  cared 
to  play  her  to  his  West  End  audiences,  excessively  sensi- 
tive as  to  morals.  Dear,  kind,  generous,  romantic  Sir 
Walter — to  go  back  a  generation — wouldn't  have  intro- 
duced her  to  Waverley  even  at  peril  of  his  own  incog- 
nito. It  requires  a  woman  to  face  a  difficult  situation 
and  cover  it  with  a  jump.  Once  having  caught  our 
breath  we  have  no  difficulty  in  going  on.  We  take  no 
responsibility  for  Terezia.  It  is  merely  our  duty  (2Vo/ 
duty,  ma'am?  Well,  pleasure)  to  present  her  to  the 
public  with  as  little  deception  as  possible.  She  is  here — 
large  as  life  and  "very  beautiful."  We'll  rub  in  her 
beauty  to  counterbalance  her  want  of  virtue.  She  was 
splendidly  healthy,  too;  always  an  attraction.  Her  vice 
— if  vice  it  was — was  as  plain  as  daylight.  In  other 
words,  she  wasn't  ashamed  of  herself.  In  those  days — 
were  they  so  very  different  to  our  own?  Names  change, 
not  offences. 

Looking  at  General  Bonaparte  (she  was  so  sure  of  her- 
self that  she  was  confident  of  him),  she  didn't  exonerate 
him.  No  man  has  the  right  to  be  rude  to  a  woman.  From 
the  very  first  he  had  treated  her  with  scant  respect.  Look 
at  her  Wednesdays !  Very  well  to  say  he  was  up  to  his 
neck  in  work.  No  one  works  at  night.  Night  is  the 
season  of  love  and  joy.  He  could  always  have  spared  her 
the  time  if  he  had  wished  to  see  her.  It  was  no  excuse 
at  all.  He  hadn't  made  any.  Now  when  she  came  to 
think  about  it,  he  hadn't  even  apologized  for  his  behavior. 
How  like  him ! 

He  wasn't  looking  at  her,  but  out  of  the  window,  with 
a  garden  view.  It  was  a  pretty  bit  of  garden,  with  a 
trim  little  lawn,  raked  paths,  roses  and  laurel  bushes — 
the  laurels  gleamed  in  the  half-light,  black  as  ink.  They 
formed  a  good  background  to  the  white  roses  and  the 
brilliant  geraniums  .  .  .  she  liked  color  in  a  garden, 


162  LOVE 

but  she  preferred  it  in  her  life.  .  .  .  Oh,  wouldn't  she 
have  a  fine  time!  There  was  something  Eastern  in  her 
self-worship.  She  would  like  to  lay  her  white  body  on 
a  moonlit  path  to  be  stared  at  by  the  angels  .  .  .  any- 
thing for  a  new  sensation.  She'd  suffer  his  "insolence" 
solely  for  this.  A  man  to  sit  opposite  her — alone  in  her 
company,  the  intimacy  of  twilight  around  them — as  a 
"stuck  pig"  was  rather  a  novelty.  She  swallowed  her 
indignation  with  difficulty.  She  wouldn't  have  been  more 
surprised  if  the  populace — who  "adored"  her — had,  at  her 
last  public  appearance  on  the  Champs  de  Mars,  bespat- 
tered her  with  mud. 

She  had  behaved  "wickedly"  on  his  account.  For  ever 
so  long  ago  she  had  promised  young  Gustave  Merlin  (or 
was  it  Philippe  Lefebre?)  to  give  him  the  very  first  even- 
ing she  had  at  her  disposal.  It  was  before  the  arrival 
of  Rose-Marie-Thermidor.  "You  shall  have  supper  with 
me  and  we'll  talk  it  over,"  she  had  said.  He'd  been  in 
ecstasies  !  he'd  thanked  her  with  a  thousand 

"General!" 

"Madam?" 

"Light  the  candles,  will  you?  Or  do  you  prefer  the 
dark?" 

"Whichever  you  please,  ma'am." 

"Then  we  will  have  the  light.  All  the  light  we  can  get. 
I  want  to  know  you,  sir.  To  recognize  you  when  we 
meet  again." 

She  handed  him  the  tinder-box. 

"Thank  you,  citoyewne" 

"I  was  shut  up  at  Les  Carmes  with  Josephine  de  Beau- 
harnais  for  five  months.  You  know  her,  don't  you?" 

"I  have  that  privilege." 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

He  was  silent.  He  went  about  the  room  and  carefully 
and  rather  awkwardly  he  lit  the  candles. 

"Pull  down  the  blinds." 

He  did  so. 

"Put   that   cushion   behind  my   back." 


LOVE  163 

He  bent  over  her.  She  held  up  her  arms  above  her 
head.  "Where  are  you?  I  can't  see  you.  Are  you  going 
to  be  a  savant  all  your  life,  general?" 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  he  kissed  her  mouth. 

"Ring  the  bell,  please,"  said  Terezia.  "I'm  ready  for 
supper." 

The  discreet  Pierre  brought  in  the  dishes,  arranged  the 
table,  uncorked  the  champagne  and  withdrew. 

"Are  you  hungry?"  said  Terezia,  rising. 

"I'm  always  hungry." 

He  followed  her  to  the  table  and  sat  down  at  her  right 
hand.  There  was  a  bowl  of  roses  on  the  little  round  table, 
and  plenty  of  things  to  eat.  But  he  didn't  display  any 
appetite.  She  rallied  him. 

"Afraid  of  your  figure,  general?  You'll  be  punished, 
sir.  One  day  you'll  get  fat."  (She  was  eating  hot  pastry 
— nothing  interfered  with  her  skin.)  "Oh,  I  can  see  you 
with  quite  an  important  little  stomach!"  She  laughed. 
"Your  health,  general.  And  all  the  success  in  the  world." 

"Thank  you,  madam." 

"Are  you  angry,  sir?" 

"Angry?     Angry  with  you?     No." 

Yet  in  each  measured  syllable  lay  her  death-warrant  as 
far  as  her  future  success  went.  She  had  irretrievably 
"done"  for  herself.  He  never  forgot,  and  he  never  for- 
gave her  her  jest — never! 

She  drank  off  her  wine  and  asked  him  to  refill  her  glass. 
"Life  is  our  own  affair,"  she  said  softly.  "We  have  only 
to  please  ourselves,  if  we  are  clever.  You  are  clever,  gen- 
eral. Oh,  I'm  positive  you  are.  Clever  people  are  always 
sulky.  I'm  always  good-tempered.  No  one  wants  a  pretty 
woman  to  be  talented.  It  is  rather  a  pity.  I  wonder 
why?" 

He  made  no  answer. 

She  sighed.  "Have  you  nothing  to  talk  about,  general  ? 
Try  this  mayonnaise.  Lamer-tine's  new  rooms  are  lovely. 
They  have  a  subscription-ball  every  Monday.  Come!" 

"One  day." 


164  LOVE 

"I  hate  putting  off  a  thing.  Next  Monday.  Do  you 

hear?  Next  Monday,  the  "  She  mentioned  the 

date.  "Don't  forget." 

His  radiance  bewildered  her.  "I  won't  forget,"  he  said 
in  a  low,  passionate  voice. 

She  didn't  know,  no  more  than  she  had  realized  her 
enormity  at  venturing  to  joke  over  his  person,  that  she 
had  mentioned  his  lucky  number.  He  loved  her  for  it. 
He  got  up  and  kissed  her  again  with  all  a  little  corporal's 
violence.  She  enjoyed  it.  She  wiped  her  mouth  with  her 
serviette.  "Sir,"  she  said,  "I'm  surprised  at  you."  (She 
wasn't  at  all.)  "Sit  down  and  behave  yourself.  You  are 
muddling  me  up  with " 

"No  names,  my  beautiful  lady;   no   names." 

"General,  listen.  Send  in  your  petition  at  once  to  the 
Convention.  I  know  as  a  fact  they  are  only  waiting  for 
an  opportunity  to  reinstate  you." 

"I  want  more  than  that." 

"More?" 

"Another  step  and  rather  a  considerable  rise." 

"You'll  get  it.  They  can't  afford  to  lose  you.  I  know 
it." 

"Bosh !"  His  face  went  dusky-red,  paling  to  ashy-white. 
His  eyes  were  as  fireballs.  She  stopped  in  the  act  of 
eating  a  truffle,  the  better  to  stare  at  him. 

"You  are  not  strong,"  she  said  pityingly.  "Take  care 
of  yourself."  She  nodded  her  head.  "Think  of  Josephine. 
Poor  Josephine!  She's  such  a  dear.  I  love  her.  And 
I'm  ready  to  love  you,  too.  You  don't  mind,  do  you? 
I  know  a  great  many  things,  general.  I  could  tell  you 
— but  I  won't.  You  are  not  grateful  enough.  If  you  go 
abroad  we'll  all  be  disconsolate.  Poor  Josephine!" 

She  wrapped  her  lace  shawl  round  her  shoulders.  The 
memory  of  his  hot  lips  oppressed  her.  Why,  the  man  was 
an  undeveloped  crater.  One  day  he'd  explode.  And 
wouldn't  people  howl! 

"You  make  me  uncomfortable,"  she  said.  "Don't  look 
at  me,  sir." 


LOVE  165 

"You  are  so  beautiful,"  he  said.  His  voice  had  a  caress- 
ing note.  "And  you  are  so  kind.  I  have  had  very  little 
kindness  in  my  life,  Terezia." 

"Poor  general!  Never  mind.  Fate  is  sure  to  make  it 
up  to  you.  You  are  too  obstinate  not  to  succeed.  There's 
only  one  thing  you  want." 

"What  is  it,  precious?" 

"Are  you  making  love  to  me,  sir?  Opportunity.  Given 
opportunity  and  you'll  take  all  there  is  to  take.  Josephine 
or  the  world — it  doesn't  matter  which.  Don't  leave  me 
out  in  the  cold." 

The  blood  flooded  her  neck  and  bosom.  She  breathed 
rather  unevenly.  How  she'd  done  it  she  couldn't  conceive, 
but  surely  as  she  was  a  woman  (a  beautiful  one)  she  had 
fascinated  him.  She  had  never  yet  been  mistaken  in  a 
man's  glance. 

"I'll  give  you  the  key  t6  your  inheritance,"  she  mur- 
mured. "Presently  you'll  unlock  the  door  and  enter  into 
possession.  I  envy  you,  general.  It  is  a  splendid  castle, 
full  of  riches  and  honor " 

"And  love?" 

"And  love." 

"The  future  of  a  penniless  officer,  under  a  cloud !" 

"Isn't  it  good  enough?" 

"No." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Everything.  I've  the  biggest  appetite  in  the  world, 
madam."  He  laughed  exultantly. 

"You  haven't  shown  it,"  she  faltered. 

"Wait,"  he  said.    "Wait." 

Neither  of  them  suffered  from  their  evening's  entertain- 
ment. Bonaparte  walked  home — at  first  half  contemptu- 
ously recalling  the  lady's  kindness,  and  after  a  while — 
he  was  in  the  heart  of  Paris  by  then — not  giving  the  deli- 
cate subject  another  thought  (so  much  for  gratitude!). 
Terezia  retired  to  her  own  room,  undressed  quickly  and 
was  soon  fast  asleep,  a  healthy,  dreamless  slumber  which 
lasted  until  morning. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

T>  Y  formal  notice  General  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was 
•*~^  granted  the  favor — for  a  certain  stipulated  period — 
to  journey  to  Constantinople  as  French  instructor  to  the 
Turkish  troops.  In  his  humble  petition  he  had  notified 
his  wish  to  improve  their  artillery.  There  is  always  room 
for  improvement  in  this  world.  Even  the  Convention  had 
to  allow  such  a  simple  fact.  It  was  also  a  convenient 
manner  of  getting  rid  of  a  young  officer  who,  by  merits 
of  his  own,  had  risen  to  be  something  of  a  mote  in  the 
eyes  of  his  fellow-officers.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  age, 
after  all.  And  it  is  not  pleasant — owin^  to  the  vagaries 
of  fortune — for  an  older  man  to  serve  under  a  younger 
man ;  it  cuts  into  his  most  sacred  feelings.  "It  is  not  fair," 
as  children  say. 

(France  is  a  land  of  children — for  the  most  part  good- 
tempered,  very  brave  children,  but  quite  capable  of  fight- 
ing over  the  shadow  of  a  shadow.) 

Napoleon  had  foreseen  this  eventuality — in  fact  it  had 
lulled  him  serenely  to  sleep,  the  day  he  had  sent  in  his 
memorial. 

Two  weeks  later  the  Administrative  Council  received 
yet  another  humbly-worded  document  from  this  trouble- 
some young  man.  In  it  he  stated  that  the  exigencies  of 
the  situation  compelled  him  to  ask  for  at  least  three  or 
four  capable  assistants.  He  made  it  very  plain — in  legal 
language — that  he  could  not  all  alone  plug  learning  into 
the  wily  Turks.  It  would  be  beyond  one  man's  strength. 

The  Convention  frowned  at  this  fresh  demand.  They 
would  have  to  consider  the  matter.  Each  officer  was  a 
valuable  asset  to  France — they  said.  They  could  not 
very  well  afford  to  grant  his  request.  He  was  asking  too 
much.  On  the  whole,  France  had  very  little  interest  in 

166 


LOVE  167 

Turkey.  They  might  teach  her  to  be  wise  and  another 
nation  might  profit  by  their  lesson.  The  Convention 
argued  and  pondered  and  quarrelled  and  argued  again  (at 
great  length).  Time,  the  coolest  spirit  who  ever  circled 
around  our  passions,  beat  her  regular  hours.  And  the 
weeks  slipped  past  (to  General  Bonaparte's  deep  content) 
without  any  appreciable  change  in  his  fortunes. 

In  the  meanwhile  Tallien  had  returned  to  Paris  very 
crestfallen.  Terezia  had  been  the  loudest  in  her  re- 
proaches. He  had  done  for  himself,  she  said.  He  was 
a  pig,  and  she  hated  pigs.  She  had  not  married  a  pig. 
He  tried  to  brazen  it  out,  meeting  shriek  for  shriek.  She 
always  went  one  better.  She  was  physically  strong — a 
really  superb  woman — and  he  was  weak,  bodily  and  men- 
tally. At  last  he  was  left  gaping.  His  big  loose  lips 
were  continually  hanging  open — a  very  ugly  sight. 

He  still  had  his  nominal  post  in  the  Convention.  Poor 
wretch,  he  knew  he  was  only  there  on  sufferance.  As  soon 
as  they  could  conveniently  spare  him,  they  (the  strong 
men)  would  kick  him  out  into  outer  darkness.  Even  his 
riches  were  sensibly  diminishing.  Terezia  did  not  spare 
them — and  he  did  not  dare  refuse  her.  He  was  at  heart 
a  coward.  He  did  not  dare  this  and  he  did  not  dare  that. 
Contemptible ! 

He  made  one  or  two  public  speeches  in  his  own  defence 
(always  poor  policy).  He  was  met  with  ribald  laughter. 
Not  even  ^Terezia,  in  her  very  best  frock,  standing  on  the 
platform,  could  save  him  from  the  ignominy  of  public 
derision.  The  sweat  poured  down  his  livid  face.  He  ges- 
ticulated as  a  windmill  in  a  full  gale.  His  brilliant  coat 
with  all  its  mass  of  detail  flapped  to  and  fro.  He  was 
a  spectacle  and  nothing  more.  .  .  .  When  the  smiling 
Terezia  realized  this,  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  and,  with 
one  last  "Boo,"  hero  Tallien  disappeared  behind  the  scenes. 
And  stood  there  awhile,  with  almost  childish  curiosity, 
listening  to  the  hisses  which  followed  his  exit.  .  .  .  Terezia 
in  the  committee-room  was  trembling  with  rage.  .  .  .  Here 
again  she  was  faced  with  the  unpleasant  necessity  of 


168  LOVE 

divorce — so  unfortunate.  .  .  .  No,  she  wouldn't  divorce 
him!  She'd  keep  his  name  (which  was  in  a  way  famous) 
and  simply  turn  him  out  of  doors.  He  would  have  to  go. 
Where?  (She  shrugged  her  trembling  shoulders.)  He 
could  please  himself,  as  long  as  she  never  saw  his  damnable 
face  again.  .  .  .  Standing  there,  cringing  behind  a  shut 
door,  listening  to  his  sure  defeat,  she  despised  him  beyond 
words.  .  .  .  Without  a  further  glance  Terezia  left  her 
husband  to  his  consternation. 

The  gods  intervened  in  his  favor.  Public  differences 
and  high  politics  for  the  moment  swept  the  Tallien  ques- 
tion on  one  side.  Tallien's  mouth  resumed  its  normal  lines 
— he  even  contrived  a  laugh  or  two,  and  he  plucked  up 
spirit  sufficient  to  abuse  Terezia  and  to  speak  largely  of 
the  immediate  future.  She  was  willing  to  listen  to  reason. 
Once  again  the  couple  were  seen  at  the  theatres  and  other 
places  of  public  entertainment,  to  all  appearances  recon- 
ciled to  each  other. 

Those  were  grave  times  in  Paris.  The  Convention  saw 
itself  drifting  towards  dissolution.  They  were  prepared 
to  cut  themselves  in  half,  as  it  were,  and  reappear  in  two 
separate  bodies  (greatly  enlarged),  under  the  control  of 
five  Directors,  M.  Barras  keeping  his  old  place  under  a 
new  title.  (Except  for  the  name  of  the  thing  a  very  little 
advance.)  The  "Ancients"  had  practical  control  of  the 
"Young  Party,"  represented  by  five  hundred  members,  the 
election  being  left  to  the  country.  Popular  prejudice — 
backed  by  the  Royalists — would  have  none  of  it.  Such 
a  government  was  derogatory  to  the  national  dignity,  they 
said.  The  masses  were  the  mouthpiece  of  the  nobles.  A 
topsy-turvy  attitude,  considering  how  matters  had  stood 
little  more  than  a  year  ago. — There  is  nothing  so  strange 
as  evolution.  In  very  truth  the  people  had  a  righteous 
cause.  They  had  come  through  the  Revolution  sobered 
in  some  respects — angered  in  others — and  destitute  in 
both. 

We  can  imagine  how  anxiously  the  general  watched 
events.  How  he  must  have  wished  to  have  actively  assisted 


LOVE  169 

either  party.  It  must  have  been  intolerable  for  him  to 
have  ample  leisure  at  his  disposal.  To  be  at  liberty  to 
roam  the  streets  of  Paris  and  speculate  in  house  property, 
in  marriages  (made  in  heaven)  and  any  other  little  likely 
affair  which  happened  to  come  his  way.  Nothing  hindered 
him,  we  tell  you.  True,  he  had  nominally  been  reinstated 
and  given  a  fresh  commission  in  the  Republican  forces. 
Merely  a  formality.  His  services  were  not  required.  Gall 
and  wormwood — bitterness  and  shock — an  awful  shock 
to  our  ambitious  hero.  Not  if  he  had  been  tied  to  earth 
by  a  thousand  ropes  could  he  have  pulled  more  desperately 
at  the  chain  of  circumstance.  How  he  must  have  tramped 
the  streets  in  the  teeth  of  the  autumnal  gales  or  in  sleety 
squalls — how  he  must  have  lingered  at  street  corners, 
impervious  to  the  elements,  listening  to  the  Voice  of  the 
People!  He  almost  loved  the  people.  He  took  a  warm- 
hearted interest  in  the  nobles,  rounding  up  finely  to  popu- 
larity. He  was  ready,  as  we  have  said,  to  fall  down  and 
worship  any  sect,  body  or  spirit,  who'd  give  him 
deliverance. 

The  actor  Talma  took  an  interest  in  him.  Now  and 
again  he'd  look  him  up,  and  he  always  sent  him  a  compli- 
mentary ticket  for  any  performance  when  he  himself 
appeared  in  the  cast.  Bonaparte  would  avail  himself 
occasionally  of  these  attentions  and  follow  the  play — from 
a  humble  seat  in  the  house — with  evident  interest.  He 
never  failed  to  give  the  actor  his  opinion  on  his  perform- 
ance. Talma  took  the  general's  criticism  in  good  part. 
It  was  both  just  and  distinctive.  He'd  abuse  him  roundly 
and  praise  him  just  as  soundly.  He  had  the  greatest  con- 
tempt for  what  he  called  theatrical  emotion.  "And  yet 
you  made  me  cry,"  he  said  wonderingly,  on  one  occasion. 
Talma  was  gratified.  He  had  glanced  around  the  general's 
bare  little  room,  and  spied  its  poverty  with  some  natural 
indignation — it  wasn't  the  first  time  he  had  climbed  Bona- 
parte's interminable  stairs,  but  on  each  occasion  he  had 
felt  that  the  Convention  had  treated  his  young  friend 
shabbily.  He  deserved  something  better  ...  he  deserved 


170  LOVE 

a  good  dinner  at  once.  Whereupon  Talma  would  invite 
the  general  to  partake  of  his  hospitality.  Often  as  not 
it  was  politely  refused.  The  general  had  either  just  dined 
or  he  had,  as  he  expressed  it,  no  time  to  loiter  in  a  tavern. 
His  table  was  piled  with  documents,  and  Talma  took  his 
leave  not  quite  at  his  ease  ...  his  young  friend  was 
evidently  in  very  poor  circumstances.  He  had  heard  of 
his  widowed  mother  and  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 
He  was  practically  the  head  of  the  family,  this  penniless, 
brilliant  officer,  born  under  a  cloud.  The  remembrance 
of  Bonaparte's  pinched  features  and  the  extraordinary 
brilliancy  of  his  eyes  would  very  probably  interfere  with 
the  kindly  artist's  proper  appreciation  of  Lamertine's  cele- 
brated cookery.  Lamertine's  was  a  restaurant  with  a 
reputation,  and  was  frequented  by  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men.  You  were  never  disappointed  in  hearing  some- 
thing at  Lamertine's,  if  only  of  la  beUe  Tallien's  latest 
case,  or  last  gown.  Sometimes  you  went  home — in  the 
early  morning — with  your  head  reeling,  top-heavy  with 
champagne  and  rumors.  Once  again  a  swarm  of  political 
suggestions  hung  thick  as  bees  in  an  apple-tree  over  Paris. 
Everyone  talked.  Everyone  had  his  pet  scheme.  And  no 
one  seemed  to  have  the  least  notion  how  to  obtain  it. 
Pretty  deplorable. 

The  general  sat  at  home  almost  every  night.  Every 
week  he  sent  his  mother  a  letter — a  pattern  of  a  dutiful 
son's  correspondence.  Out  of  his  meagre  pay  he  contrived 
to  forward  his  sisters  each  some  longed-for  gift,  to  pay  his 
brother  Louis'  schooling,  and  to  help  his  mother  with  her 
rent.  He  very  seldom  alluded  to  his  own  doing,  and  less 
seldom  to  his  expectations.  However,  in  October  Letitia 
had  the  gratifying  intelligence  that  Napoleon  was  prom- 
ised a  new  post  of  some  consequence.  "Do  not  be  uneasy 
on  my  account,"  he  wrote.  "I  am  confident  of  the  future." 
She  was  greatly  relieved.  She  had  been  worried  over  her 
second  son.  She  couldn't  help  comparing  his  hard  life  to 
his  elder  brother  Joseph's  easy  circumstances.  Joseph  had 
done  very  well  for  himself.  He'd  married  money  and  a 


LOVE  171 

dear,  good  girl,  too.  Letitia  had  never  heard  of  the 
Widow  Beauharnais.  As  we  have  said,  the  general  didn't 
write  of  his  own  affairs.  If  she  had  had  an  inkling  of 
the  general's  imminent  danger  in  that  quarter,  no  doubt 
she  would  have  braved  the  discomfort  of  the  Marseilles 
diligence  to  come  up  to  Paris,  and  forbidden  him  to  have 
any  further  intercourse  with  the  lady.  Would  he  have 
obeyed  her?  Very  probably.  His  character  was  exces- 
sively complicated,  and  he'd  been  brought  up  to  fear  his 
mother.  As  yet — except  for  a  tentative  trial — he  hadn't 
proven  his  wings.  The  eagle  was  still  penned  in  his  cage 
(not  gilded).  It  was  opening.  The  first  bar  was  down, 
the  second,  the  third.  Oh,  those  breathless  days  of  great 
expectations!  If  Menou  had  behaved  with  confidence;  if 
Tallien  hadn't  deceived;  if  Barras  hadn't  yawned,  would 
the  last  bars  have  held — for  a  time  forward,  at  least?  And 
pretty  Josephine  married  somebody  else;  and  the  Italian 
command  split  into  factions  (covered  with  disaster)  ;  and 
all  the  rest  of  our  fairy-tale,  "true  as  true  can  be,"  one 
hopeless,  unromantic  failure?  Why  worry?  Barras  lost 
his  head  and  Bonaparte  (in  an  emergency)  kept  his,  and 
with  his  few  rounds  of  shot  cleared  the  congested  traffic 
in  a  jiffy. 


CHAPTER  XX 

r  I"1  HE  worried  Convention  saw  no  means  of  controlling 
•*•  the  growing  flood  of  dissatisfaction.  Was  France 
again  on  the  eve  of  a  civil  war?  It  looked  like  it.  So 
said  Tallien,  broadly  smiling.  (He  took  a  cheerful  view 
of  the  affair — in  a  way  it  had  been  his  salvation.)  So 
said  Barras,  on  the  whole  indifferently.  (He  was  heartily 
weary  of  every  aspect  of  the  case.)  So  said  FrSron,  the 
future  lover  of  Bonaparte's  pretty  sister  Pauline,  and  by 
no  means  a  pessimist.  As  to  General  Menou,  he  reserved 
his  opinion. 

By  the  beginning  of  October,  things  looked  very  dark 
indeed.  In  plain  language,  an  open  rebellion  was  imminent. 
At  the  Filles  St.  Thomas  Convent  the  revolutionary  party 
had  set  up  a  field-piece  or  two.  Seventy  thousand  insur- 
gents flocked  to  the  Royalist  colors — all  conditions  of  men. 

On  Tuesday  morning — October  the  fourth — General 
Menou  marched  at  the  head  of  his  troops  to  quell  the  dis- 
order. The  Convention,  gathered  to  a  man  in  their  own 
hall,  awaited  the  issue  with  burning  impatience.  It  was 
past  noon  before  the  facts  were  laid  before  the  House. 
And  a  fine  hubbub  arose.  It  was  a  disgraceful  affair, 
they  said.  It  had  no  parallel  in  history! 

The  enemy — somewhere  in  the  Rue  Vivienne  district — 
had  to  that  extent  intimidated  the  valiant  Menou  that  he 
and  his  "picked  men"  had  marched  back  to  quarters  with- 
out as  much  as  firing  a  volley  of  oaths  into  the  faces  of 
the  ring-leaders;  black  fellows,  they — butchers  and  tan- 
ners, or  some  such  small  traders,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear 
at  their  success.  The  people  behind  them,  at  the  sight 
of  the  soldiers'  backs,  lifted  their  voices  and  yelled.  A 
howl,  either  of  joy  or  execration,  expresses  infinitely  more 
than  the  polite  man's  cheer.  Trudging  back  along  the 

172 


LOVE  173 

Rue  St.  Honore,  the  discomfited  Menou  felt  his  ears  burn 
and  tingle.  He  delivered  his  report  at  the  Tuileries  in 
a  very  crestfallen  condition. 

His  statement  was  received  with  chilling  silence.  He 
had  failed  in  his  duty.  Thunder  of  God !  had  they  asked 
him  to  fire  on  the  people?  The  Convention  shivered. 
Every  member  in  the  House  shivered  at  such  a  preposter- 
ous measure.  They  blinked  at  the  heated  general  (who 
suffered  from  a  kind  heart).  Then  they  blinked  at  each 
other,  seeking  some  definite  opinion.  Finding  none,  they 
burst  simultaneously  into  rage.  General  Menou  was  put 
under  arrest.  That  relieved  their  overcharged  feelings 
immensely.  It  was  an  Act — to  counterbalance  oceans  of 
talk. 

Barras  smiled  and  jocularly  put  the  question  to  a 
bewildered  colleague:  "Which  do  you  prefer,  underdone 
meat  or  a  joint  burnt  to  a  cinder?  Personally  I  prefer  a 
happy  medium.  Where  is  our  master-cook,  eh?" 

The  harassed  colleague  rubbed  his  head  in  vain  to  find 
the  answer  to  the  riddle.  He  supposed  it  was  a  riddle. 
Getting  no  answer,  Barras  drifted  across  the  chamber 
and  buttonholed  Tallien.  They  conversed  together  in 
whispers.  It  wasn't  in  good  taste,  but  it  whetted  curiosity. 
Then  Barras  strode  across  the  floor  of  the  House  and 
faced  the  members.  "I  know  of  a  little  man,"  he  said, 
"who  will  stand  on  no  ceremony." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

N  his  attic  General  Bonaparte  had  taken  the  precaution 

of  locking  his  door,  to  ensure  his  privacy.     When  in 

the  midst  of  his  correspondence  he  disliked  interruption. 

He  was  addressing  a  letter  to  Citizen  Joseph  Bonaparte, 
Marseilles,  when  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  made  him  clench 
his  teeth.  "What  is  it?"  (His  voice  rasped  as  a  rusty 
bolt.) 

"M'sieu'  le  general — a  note " 

"From  whom?" 

"M.  Bourrienne." 

Swearing  beneath  his  breath  he  blotted  his  envelope, 
stuck  a  wafer  or  two  methodically  on  the  back  of  it, 
weighed  it  in  his  hand.  Whereupon  he  rose,  turned  the 
key  and  flung  open  the  door. 

"Bonsoir,  M.  le  general." 

"Why,  Peter!"  (What  a  face  he  had — he'd  have  made 
his  fortune  on  the  cinema,  the  little  corporal!)  His  eyes 
melted  with  genuine  affection.  By  some  curious  system 
of  subtraction  and  addition  old  Peter  represented  good 
fortune.  And  when  good  fortune  knocks  at  your  own 
door — there  must  be  something  in  it. 

He  took  the  old  man  familiarly  under  the  arm.  "I  have 
had  a  bad  day,  Peter.  Heard  any  news?" 

"I  have  heard  nothing  else,  sir." 

"A  more  vacillating,  despicable  set  o'  cowards  I've  never 
struck." 

Peter  stood  at  attention.  "I  presume  M.  le  general 
is  alluding  to  the  insurgents?" 

"No"  (the  general  spoke  slowly,  as  if  weighing  his 
words),  "I  was  aiming  at  the  Convention.  If  I  had  a 
cannon  or  two  I'd  soon  settle  their  hash.  They  are  in 
desperate  straits." 

174 


LOVE  175 

"Not  in  comparison  with  the  other  side,  sir." 

"Is  that  so?     Are  you  an  oracle,  Peter?" 

"I've  a  shred  or  two  of  common  sense,  sir." 

"A  millionaire!  Can't  I  borrow?  Sit  down,  old  friend, 
and  make  yourself  comfortable." 

Bonaparte  waved  towards  the  chair.  He  seated  him- 
self on  the  bed,  far  up,  so  that  his  legs  swung  off  the  floor. 
It  amused  him  for  a  time  to  watch  his  rocking  feet.  His 
face  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 

"It  is  coming,  Peter.     It  is  coming!" 

"With  a  vengeance,  sir." 

"Some  of  us  have  our  heads  filled  with  wool — soft,  sticky 
wool;  some  have  sawdust,  packed  in  tight — it  makes  'em 
deaf  as  posts.  The  woolly  ones  are  light-headed.  Lord! 
the  combustion !  Life  is  great !  Life  is  tremendous !  .  .  ." 
(And  all  the  time,  as  he  talked  in  a  loud  key,  he  swung 
his  feet,  in  their  clumsy  field-boots,  to  and  fro  with  quick 
precision.) 

The  old  soldier  gave  him  a  reproving  glance.  "It  isn't 
the  time  for  gimcracks,  sir." 

"For  or  against?  .  .  .  You  are  my  living  conscience, 
Peter.  Between  ourselves,  both  sides  are  equally  rotten. 
I'll  throw  in  my  lot  with  him  who  pays  best.  .  .  ."  (He 
was  silent.  His  face  grew  hard  as  a  face  carved  in  wood.) 
When  he  lifted  his  eyes  he  had  taken  his  resolution.  He 
slipped  off  the  bed,  and  came  forward,  holding  out  his 
hand.  "Give  me  the  note,"  he  said. 

He  took  it,  broke  the  seal  and  read  as  follows: 

"I  have  a  spare  ticket  to-night  for  Talma.  Madame 
Bourrienne  hopes  you  will  join  us  at  the  Odeon,  six  sharp. 

BOUERIENNE." 

"What  is  the  date,  Peter?" 
"October  the  fourth,  M.  le  general,  old  time." 
"Yes,  we'll  go  back  a  step  or  two."    He  drew  a  deep 
breath.     "There  are  seventy  thousand  rebels  in  Paris.'* 
"At  the  very  least,  sir." 
"Menou  has  failed." 


176  LOVE 

"His  hands  were  tied." 

"No  general  worthy  his  name  takes  the  field  with  his 
hands  tied."  Bonaparte  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Peter  nodded. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  The  general  turned 
round  impatiently. 

"For  your  answer,   sir." 

"My  answer."  His  voice  vibrated  as  a  sensitive  instru- 
ment. There  was  a  note  of  wonder  and  tender  respect 
in  it.  (Did  not  all  things  point — upwards?) 

"My  compliments  to  M.  Bourrienne,  and  tell  him  I  will 
be  very  pleased  to  accept  his  kind  invitation." 

The  old  soldier  saluted.     "Very  good,   sir." 

Bonaparte  never  noticed  that  he  was  alone  until  a 
neighboring  clock  (a  dear  friend  of  his)  struck  five.  And 
then  he  did  not  move.  He  still  stood  by  his  writing-table, 
fingering  a  sheet  of  note-paper.  Once  he  flung  the  window 
open  and  leaned  far  out.  A  body,  a  close,  compact  body 
of  people  were  marching  along  the  embankment.  A  sound, 
like  the  muffled  whimper  of  a  distressed  she-bear,  rose  from 
the  narrow  streets  below.  He  heard  the  sharp  click  of 
sabots  hurrying  as  if  for  dear  life.  Then  again  that  dis- 
tressed murmur — only  louder.  The  he-bear  had  joined 
in  the  chorus. 

Napoleon  gave  a  faint  whistle.  He  shut  the  window; 
stepped  across  the  room,  poured  out  a  basinful  of  cold 
water  and  bathed  his  face  carefully.  In  front  of  his  modest 
mirror  he  smoothed  his  tumbled  hair.  He  adjusted  his 
collar  and  he  selected  from  his  rickety  chest  of  drawers  a 
clean  handkerchief.  He  carefully  brushed  his  uniform 
and  his  cocked  hat.  Whereupon  he  took  his  sword  out 
of  its  scabbard,  kissed  it  as  a  lover  kisses  the  mouth  of 
his  mistress ;  sheathed  it  and  buckled  it  on  to  his  belt,  and 
tramped  downstairs. 

He  dined  luxuriously  at  a  little  cafe,  three  doors  off,  on 
a  cut  off  the  joint  and  roast  potatoes.  He  drank  two 
cups  of  coffee  and,  contrary  to  his  custom,  he  indulged  in 


LOVE  177 

a  small  cognac.  Then  he  walked  very  leisurely  through 
the  crowded  streets  to  the  playhouse.  The  Odeon  theatre 
was  situated  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  Tuileries, 
where  the  Convention  was  assembled.  The  palace  was  in 
ckrkness,  with  the  exception  of  the  Chamber,  which  was 
lighted  up,  though  night  had  not  yet  set  in.  The  air 
electric.  The  citizens  of  Paris  were  loud-tongued 
and  the  streets  rang  with  human  voices  at  full  play.  Curi- 
osity was  rife.  The  main  theme  was  Menou's  retreat.  A 
highly  embroidered  version  of  the  affair  was  common  cur- 
rency. The  public,  those  bent  on  the  same  errand  as 
General  Bonaparte — going  towards  some  place  of  amuse- 
ment— scoffed  at  the  whole  affair.  .  .  .  There  was  no 
danger  in  it,  they  said.  As  a  matter  of  precaution  they 
might  just  as  well  stay  indoors  for  a  day  or  two.  .  .  . 
Cut-throats  were  unpleasant  gentry.  .  .  . 

Napoleon  smiled  at  the  spirit  of  the  crowd.  It  was 
like  a — crowd.  A  crowd  is  made  up  of  insignificant  units. 

All  through  the  first  act  he  sat  as  a  thundercloud 
between  the  amiable  Bourriennes.  Even  little  Madame 
Bourrienne,  the  soul  of  good-nature,  felt  uncomfortable. 
She  glanced  at  the  general's  profile  with  some  apprehension. 
She  did  not  dare  address  him.  He  sat  carelessly,  low  down 
in  his  seat,  with  his  knees  hunched  up — an  ungraceful  atti- 
tude— white- faced  and  implacable.  The  play  was  quite 
an  innocent  little  drama,  saved  from  mediocrity  by  Talma, 
who  shone  in  a  new  part.  Madame  Bourrienne  tried  to 
concentrate  her  attention  on  the  piece.  She  was  intensely 
conscious  of  her  guest.  Once  she  shivered.  She  wished 
Talma  would  give  her  occasion  to  weep.  .  .  .  Tears  would 
relieve  her  nervous  tension.  She  looked  round  the  crowded 
house,  dimly  visible.  She  realized  a  peculiar  excitement 
in  the  audience.  Everyone  seemed  on  the  alert.  The 
laughter  was  boisterous. 

At  the  fall  of  the  curtain  a  remarkable  change  for  the 
better  occurred  in  her  guest.  Quite  suddenly — for  no 
earthly  reason,  as  far  as  she  could  see — he  woke  up  as 
it  were  to  his  social  obligations.  Just  before  Talma's 


178  LOVE 

final  peroration,  a  minor  character  had  mentioned  a  cer- 
tain house  in  a  certain  street  by  number,  and  the  sign 
came,  as  it  were,  by  special  request.  .  .  .  Which  great 
matter  completely  reformed  the  general.  He  pulled  him- 
self together  physically  and  mentally.  Sitting  alert  in 
his  stall  he  exercised  his  well-known  powers  of  entertain- 
ment. He  convulsed  Madame  Bourrienne  by  his  apt  allu- 
sions to  the  audience — now  visible — and  to  the  play.  In 
short,  he  was  audacious,  gay  and  witty.  And  he  laughed 
louder  than  anyone  else  in  the  house.  M.  Bourrienne  once 
or  twice,  without  success,  tried  to  call  his  attention.  At 
last  he  tapped  his  wife's  arm.  "My  dear,"  he  said,  "excuse 
me  interrupting  you,  but  there  is  a  gentleman  over  there 
who  has  long  been  trying  to  attract  General  Bonaparte's 
attention." 

The  general  turned  a  smiling,  indifferent  face  on  the 
new-comer. 

"  'Evening,  Joseph,"  he  said.  "I  am  having  far  too 
good  a  time  to  move.  What  is  it?" 

"Excuse  me,  madam."  Joseph  bowed  deferentially  to 
Madame  Bourrienne.  "Will  you  allow  me  to  carry  off  the 
general  for  a  moment  or  two?" 

Madame  Bourrienne  returned  the  bow.  "Yes,  of 
course,"  she  said.  "Come  back  soon,  general." 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  he  said,  and  he  got  up 
and  lounged  after  M.  Joseph,  who  led  the  way  towards 
the  vestibule.  "Wait  a  moment,"  came  his  voice  with  a 
slightly  querulous  note  in  it.  "Or  rather,  go  on.  I've  got 
to  say  a  word  to  a  friend.  Won't  keep  you  a  second." 

Joseph  went  on.  Napoleon,  still  querulous,  looked  up 
at  a  tall  young  officer,  Murat  by  name.  He  backed  him 
into  a  corner  and  spoke  sharply.  "You  have  my  instruc- 
tions?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Leave  the  theatre  on  some  pretence.  Mount  your  horse 
at  once  and  keep  moving  up  and  down  the  palace  square. 
When  I  come  to  the  window  and  wave  my  handkerchief, 
ride  for  your  life." 


LOVE  179 

"Yes,  sir." 

"If  you  don't  see  me  at  the  window  within  half  an  hour, 
you  are  at  liberty  to  continue  your  flirtation."  A  stranger 
pushed  rudely  against  the  officers.  He  passed  through  the 
swing-doors  as  if  in  a  great  hurry. 

The  general  looked  back.  The  curtain  was  just  rising 
on  the  second  act.  He  noticed  that  the  decorations  were 
the  same,  but  that  Mademoiselle  George  (a  debutante  of 
Juno-like  proportions)  had  changed  her  dress. 

Then  he  too  passed  through  the  swing-door  and  joined 
M.  Joseph  in  the  empty,  poorly  lit  vestibule. 

"It  is  a  pity  to  miss  the  play,"  he  said,  smoothing  his 
very  smooth  upper  lip. 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  flickered  over  Joseph's  face.  "Yes, 
sir,"  he  said — handing  the  general  his  hat  and  cloak — "I 
quite  agree  with  you." 

The  general  flung  his  coat  over  his  shoulders,  leaving 
the  sleeves  empty. 

He  seemed  to  know  as  if  by  instinct  the  right  direction. 
It  was  he  who  preceded  M.  Joseph,  as  the  gentlemen 
stepped  across  the  dark  square  and  entered  the  Tuileries. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

way,"  said  Joseph. 

They  passed  down  tortuous  passage-ways — those 
secret  connecting-links  where  palace  history  begins ;  they 
climbed  a  narrow  staircase,  they  passed  through  a  door- 
way, discneetly  covered  in  arras  cloth — it  shut  without  a 
sound.  They  found  themselves  on  a  balcony,  high  up 
under  the  roof  of  the  debating  chamber.  A  fine  hubbub 
below;  a  gesticulating  mass  of  frightened  men — with  eyes 
playing  as  wildfire — looking  here  and  looking  there  as  if 
they  expected  the  Unexpected  to  happen  at  any  moment. 
The  windows  were  now  curtained.  The  conclave  was  secret 
and  fully  attended. 

At  the  top  of  the  room  stood  M.  Barras — very  heated 
in  the  face.  The  burden  of  office  pressed  on  him  with 
unusual  heaviness.  Once  or  twice  he  peered  into  the  dis- 
tance. On  one  side  of  the  hall — lined  in  serried  ranks — 
stood  a  body  of  Republican  soldiers,  and,  behind  them, 
representatives  of  the  Patriots  of  '89;  Robespierre's 
old  Guard — called  up  for  service  in  this  unparalleled 
emergency. 

The  hours  were  flocking  as  clouds  driving  before  a  gale. 
The  velocity  was  terrific.  Except  for  the  old  Guard — 
men  seasoned  in  bitter  experience,  and  who  probably  would 
not  flinch — the  Convention  had  a  very  poor  roll-call.  They 
were  not  prepared  for  this  sudden  onslaught.  They  were 
not  prepared  for  a  hundred  thousand — two  hundred — 
five  hundred  thousand  (nothing  mounts  as  rapidly  as 
panic  figures)  armed  insurgents  marching  on  Paris! — 
ready  to  beat  down  the  doors  of  their  ancient  palace  of 
discord.  .  .  .  They,  the  insurgents,  would  stop  at  nothing. 
.  .  .  They  must  be  stopped.  How?  When?  Where? 

The  battle  of  words  surged  fiercer  than  ever  as  General 
Bonaparte,  from  his  hidden  corner,  observed  the  scene  with 

180 


LOVE  181 

a  stolidly  indifferent  countenance.  M.  Joseph  observed 
him.  He  had  all  day  been  looking  at  the  menagerie  below 
— and  it  did  not  interest  him;  the  general  did.  It  was 
interesting  watching  his  entirely  expressionless  face.  He 
might  have  been  the  cynosure  of  a  million  eyes.  .  .  .  per- 
haps he  was  rehearsing? 

Presently  a  lull  occurred  in  the  torrent  of  words  below 
— sharp  and  clear  rang  a  voice — it  belonged  to  the  Mem- 
ber for  Nantes.  "Can  no  one  get  hold  of  his  address?" 
he  asked. 

"He  lodges  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis." 

"He  is  over-young " 

"Good  Lord!     Under  the  circumstance " 

"Citizens,  silence!  Where  is  General  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte to  be  found?"  (It  was  the  first  speaker  who  spoke.) 

Barras  glanced  his  way.  "Citizen  representative,"  he 
said,  "I  have  sent  for  him." 

And  the  Leader  of  the  House  looked  up  towards  the 
ornate  ceiling  with  a  glance  expressive  of  much  weariness. 
He  did  not  see  the  two  men  in  the  gallery — the  great 
ormolu  clock  and  some  fine  detail  of  wrought-iron-work 
hid  them  from  view. 

Joseph  plucked  Bonaparte's  sleeve. 

"Come,"  he  whispered. 

Bonaparte  did  not  answer.  He  still  looked  stolidly 
indifferent  as  he  followed  his  companion.  Coming  down 
the  steep  staircase  he  stopped  at  a  window  at  the  extreme 
end  of  a  narrow  corridor.  It  looked  out  on  the  square. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow.  "The  atmosphere  is 
intolerable,"  he  said.  He  gave  an  angry  push  at  the  pane. 
By  some  misadventure  he  smashed  it.  The  glass  rained 
musically  on  the  gravel-path  below. 

"A  bad  omen,"  said  Joseph. 

Bonaparte  dropped  his  mask.  "What  have  I  done?" 
he  said,  his  face  white  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"Trifling  mischief,  sir.  This  way."  Joseph  pointed 
to  a  great  door  built  of  mahogany — a  royal  door,  sur- 
mounted by  a  royal  crown.  It  practically  faced  the 


182  LOVE 

broken  window ;  the  corridor  led  into  a  vast  ante-chamber, 
hung  with  pictures  and  much  gilding.  Palaces  indulge 
in  caprices,  especially  in  their  architecture. 

He  was  met  with  flattering  attention.  The  noise  ceased 
entirely  on  his  entrance.  Every  eye  was  turned  on  him, 
and  he — he  took  them  all  in  without  flinching. 

He  bowed  to  Tallien  and  Barras.  Barras  faced  him 
gravely. 

"I  have  to  inform  you,  general,  that  in  the  crisis  in 
which  we  stand,  I  have  the  honor  of  being  selected  as 
commander.  By  the  consent  of  this  House" — he  bowed 
to  right  and  left — "I  have  chosen  you  as — ahem — my 
deputy." 

Bonaparte  bowed. 

"I  regret,  sir,  I  cannot  accept  the  honor." 

A  murmur  rose  as  the  wind  plays  amidst  the  barley. 
It  came  and  it  died.  In  the  silence  which  followed  you 
might  have  heard  the  proverbial  pin  drop. 

Then  Barras  spoke  again,  leaning  forward  with  ex- 
aggerated politeness.  "Name  your  conditions,  citizen 
general." 

"Free  hands,  sir." 

Tallien  nodded. 

"It  might  be  advisable "  he  began.  His  voice  was 

drowned  in  a  storm  of  hisses. 

"Gentlemen,  silence !"  Barras  held  up  his  hand.  "Gen- 
eral Bonaparte  is  at  liberty  to  deal  with  the  situation 
as  he  thinks  best." 

Bonaparte  bounded  up  on  the  platform.  Unconsciously, 
or  with  grave  intent,  he  stood  in  front  of  M.  Barras. 
"On  those  conditions  I  accept  the  charge  offered  me." 
He  swept  the  room  with  his  eagle  eyes.  "Officers  of  the 
guard,  advance !  We  must  arm  the  palace  and  the  palace 
precincts." 

He  gave  out  his  orders  rapidly. 

Then  he  leapt  off  the  dais  and  almost  ran  out  of  the 
room,  followed  by  incredulous  anger.  "Catch  hold  of 
him!"  they  cried.  "We  have  no  one  else!"  "But  he  is 


LOVE  183 

too  bold!"  "For  God's  sake,  no  bloodshed!"  "Spare 
the  people  of  Paris!"  "The  people!"  "The  people!" 
All  these  sentences  were  fired  off  together  or  immediately 
following  each  other.  (Napoleon  was  out  of  the  room 
and  disorder  had  returned,  nagging,  fretful,  uncertain, 
suspicious.)  The  young  soldiers  swore  beneath  their 
breath,  and  the  patriots  of  '89  grinned  in  their  beards. 
Blood  was  a  warm  red  color — let  blood  flow.  And  they 
wetted  their  lips,  anticipating  action. 

At  sight  of  a  white  handkerchief  fluttering  through  the 
broken  gap  of  a  window-pane,  a  mounted  officer  patrolling 
the  palace  square  set  spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped 
towards  Sablons.  He  was  a  keen  soldier  and  proud  of 
the  confidence  bestowed  on  him.  He  also  worshipped  his 
general.  He  also  trusted  him  more  than  he  trusted  his 
God. 

By  morning  the  defense  was  complete.  The  heavy  can- 
non, over-night,  had  been  marshalled  into  place;  at  each 
point  of  vantage  a  gun's  black  muzzle  stuck  out  an 
impudent  tongue.  One  cannon  faced  the  church  of  St. 
Roche  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore;  another  was  mounted  on 
the  Pont  Neuf.  And  every  quaking,  tired  legislator — 
still  penned  at  the  Tuileries — was  armed  with  a  piece  of 
ancient  musketry,  to  give  him  importance. 

Yet  the  Convention  wagged  sorrowful  heads  and  told 
each  other  grievous  tales. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Bonaparte  with  bitter  sarcasm,  "the 
gentlemen  would  prefer  if,  in  the  first  instance,  I  sought 
the  permission  of  the  rabble  to  shoot  at  them?  It  might 
placate  the  honorable  members'  feelings." 

The  honorable  members  looked  a  shade  more  weary  than 
before  at  the  general's  suggestion.  It  was  their  second 
sleepless  night.  .  .  .  God  knew  what  the  coming  day 
would  bring  forth!  Not  only  the  disaster  of  France, 
but  probably  their  own  personal  ruin.  The  insurgents — 
one  million  strong — were  fully  armed  with  first-class 
weapons.  .  .  . 


184  LOVE 

Napoleon  kept  on  writing.  Neither  he  nor  his  soldiers 
paid  the  least  attention  to  this  gross  exaggeration  of  facts. 
The  exhausted  legislators  grew  a  shade  cheerier,  feeling 
the  weight  of  their  muskets ;  and  at  least  three  shades 
happier  when  the  general  assured  them  that  their  arms 
were  only  to  be  used  under  very  exceptional  circumstances. 

In  the  nick  of  time  Captain  Murat  had  brought  the 
artillery  into  Paris  and  placed  it  at  General  Bonaparte's 
disposition.  Scarcely  had  his  long  train  been  set  in 
motion — warily  moving  over  straw-covered  roadways — a 
circuitous  route  had  been  chosen,  under  cover  of  a  dead- 
black  night — before  the  rioters  crept  into  Sablons  bent 
on  the  very  same  errand.  Their  astonishment  was  genu- 
ine. Not  a  piece  could  they  find — the  guns  had  been 
spirited  away !  They  toasted  each  other  and  made  merry 
over  the  matter.  "Brothers,"  they  said  (they  were  all 
brothers  by  nightfall),  "brothers — who  cares  a  damned 
red  herring!  To-morrow  we  march  on  Paris.  The  day 
after  we  eat  'fat.'  "  A  hungry  set  of  poor  devils — they. 

All  that  night — when  Napoleon  was  busy — they  sang 
and  they  howled  and  kept  up  their  roaring  good  spirits 
by  the  light  of  immense  bonfires — provisionally  lit  in  the 
street  corners — which  fires  warmed  them  better  than  coats 
of  black  sables.  They  blew  on  their  red  fingers  and  they 
spat  on  the  ground,  and  they  vowed  to  perform  great 
deeds  as  glibly  as  a  parrot  screams. 

One  or  two  of  their  officers,  in  connection  with  the 
missing  guns,  didn't  credit  the  blue  devils  with  unwonted 
energy.  A  Man  lay  behind  the  affair.  The  Convention 
did  not  hold  a  man.  An  outsider?  .  .  .  An  outsider! 

And  the  people  howled  all  through  the  night.  In  the 
morning  they  formed  into  line  in  the  best  of  good  spirits. 
Then  they  set  to  marching.  And  their  massed  feet  echoed 
on  the  cobbled  streets.  Their  tongues  were  silent.  .  .  . 

At  four  in  the  afternoon  the  first  gun  spoke.  At  five 
the  last.  At  six  Paris  was  quiet. 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  XXm 

"T  OOK  thou  carefully  which  direction  thou  takest.  God 
•*— '  and  Devil  fight  over  the  perfect  man.  Each  desires 
him  for  his  own." 

The  general,  while  superintending  the  removal  of  his 
modest  possessions,  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  little  parch- 
ment volume  he  had  picked  up  that  morning  at  a  second- 
hand bookstall.  He  had  gone  out  with  his  pockets  full 
of  money,  alive  to  the  beauty  of  life  and  the  satisfaction 
of  wealth. 

"Is  that  all,  citizen  general?" 

Constant,  who  was  cording  a  very  humble  wooden  box, 
looked  up  deferentially  at  his  master.  He  had  very 
recently  entered  his  service.  He  was  an  alert,  capable 
young  man,  with  excellent  references. 

Bonaparte  nodded.  He  was  standing  by  the  curtainless 
window  of  his  poor  attic — the  attic  he  was  vacating  for 
— ever.  That  was  the  beauty  of  it ;  a  definite  step  in  the 
right  direction.  He  wasn't  going  down  to  the  cellars 
below,  but  up  ...  up  to  the  very  seat  of  the  stars. 

He  sighed. 

"Sir?" 

"Go !" 

Constant  hoisted  the  box  on  his  shoulders,  placed  a  roll 
of  blankets  under  his  arm,  took  up  a  small  leather  bag  in 
his  left  hand,  and  proceeding  down  the  six  flights  of  stairs 
he  placed  the  general's  luggage  on  a  wheelbarrow  in  the 
courtyard. 

"Next  time  we  move  we  shall  want  a  cab,"  he  said  to 
old  Thomas,  the  concierge. 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  mumbled  Thomas,  who,  like 
everyone  else  in  Paris,  was  impressed  by  his  lodger's  recent 
achievements.  It  requires  something  more  than  a  "whiff 

187 


188  LOVE 

of  grapeshot"  to  stamp  out  a  rebellion,  a  rebellion  in 
full  swing,  mind  you.  Seventy  thousand  hungry  men — 
backed  by  at  least  seventy  thousand  hungry  women,  aren't 
easily  put  down.  He,  the  general,  had  extinguished  them 
as  you'd  extinguish  a  farthing  dip.  A  week  ago  to-day 
since  the  Bourriennes'  theatre  party,  which  the  general 
had  accepted  hoping  that  he  would  be  called  away.  As 
we  know,  for  once  expectations  came  up  to  the  mark. 
Once  you  get  on  good  terms  with  Good  Fortune  your 
fortune  is  as  good  as  made. 

Standing  by  his  curtainless  window,  our  youthful  hero 
laughed  with  whole-hearted  happiness.  Oh,  it  was  good, 
good  to  be  alive  and  strong  and  young!  He  would  make 
the  best  of  life.  He'd  never  leave  a  stone  unturned. 
Willingly  he'd  never  go  to  sleep  again  as  long  as  he  lived. 
Life  was  too  short  for  sleep.  There  was  a  power  of  things 
to  be  done.  Like  wide  splashing  circles  his  future  revealed 
itself  before  his  dazzled  senses,  in  ever-increasing  mag- 
nitude. 

His  eyes  lighted  on  a  fresh  sentence — old  as  the  hills. 
"Count  the  cost,  Brother.  Every  success  hides  some  dis- 
appointment. .  .  ." 

He  was  young  at  that  time,  young  and  impatient,  so 
he  whipped  the  little  book  into  a  chance  pocket  almost 
contemptuously.  Then,  being  Bonaparte,  he  took  it  out 
again  and  took  another  lucky  dip. 

The  cuckoo's  note  a  little  while, 
A  little  while  earth's  dear  smile; 
The  greenery,  the  blush  of  May — 
Then  away 
To  cold  eternity. 

It  was  not  what  he  had  wanted;  it  rather  chilled  his 
ecstatic  vision  of  life  in  general  and  his  own  case  in 
particular. 

The  old  ink-spattered  deal  table  was  still  in  its  place  by 
the  window.  On  it  lay  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper.  It  was  the 


LOVE  189 

warrant  appointing  General  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  in 
recognition  of  his  recent  services  to  the  State,  Commander- 
in-Chief  of  the  Home  Forces.  More  or  less  an  empty 
title,  but  still  it  had  a  true  ring.  Also  it  led  to  better 
things. 

He  read  it  again.  Since  its  arrival,  on  Saturday,  he'd 
read  it  several  times.  He  liked  the  look  of  his  own  name, 
written  large  on  the  front  page.  One  better  than  dreams? 
At  that  very  table  he'd  often  existed  on  dreams,  supported 
on  the  thinnest  soup  imaginable;  sometimes  there'd  been 
no  soup  at  all — quite  a  miracle  the  dreams,  or  the  young 
man,  hadn't  died  a  natural  death.  He  must  have  had  a 
strong  constitution  and  quite  an  extraordinary  spirit. 

He  sat  down  on  the  one  rickety  chair  the  place  afforded 
—furnished  lodgings,  you  understand.  He'd  paid  his  bill. 
He  wasn't  in  debt  to  anyone  .  .  .  except  himself.  He 
owed  himself  all  the  glory  going  in  this  world  and  in 
the  next. 

He  shivered.  His  thoughts  were  a  shade  too  heavy  to 
carry  comfortably.  Even  the  rat  might  have  acted  as  a 
safety-valve.  There  was  a  rat,  an  inquisitive,  cold,  hungry 
rat  who  lived  in  the  hole  by  the  door.  Many  nights  he'd 
shared  his  supper  with  him  and  been  quite  pleased  with 
his  company  ...  a  living  creature.  That  rat  had  his 
secrets.  Sometimes  he'd  seen  tears,  human  tears  of  sheer 
anguish  pour  down  his  host's  pale  cheeks.  Between  our- 
selves and  the  post,  tears  of  rage.  He  was  held  up,  held 
up  by  the  gods! 

The  barriers  were  down.  At  a  moment's  notice  they'd 
give  way.  "Go,"  said  the  gods;  "follow  your  destiny." 

It  was  a  great  permission.  He  jumped  at  it  eagerly. 
We  might  say  the  Chief  of  the  Topographical  Office  (also 
an  empty  title)  had  at  one  bound  cleared  two  counties. 
Quite  a  magnificent  jump. 

With  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  face,  his  elbow  resting  on 
his  appointment,  he  thought  over  the  last  few  days. 
They'd  been  full.  The  agility  of  General  Street  had  sur- 
prised the  Government.  He  was  all  over  the  place.  They'd 


190  LOVE 

put  an  old  horse  at  his  disposal,  and  that  long-legged,  long- 
suffering  nag  was  kept  busy  from  morning  to  night,  to 
the  amusement  of  the  Parisians.  They'd  nicknamed  him 
General  Street.  He  and  his  bony  horse — inseparable— 
were  seen  everywhere.  He  reeled  out  orders,  and,  more  than 
that,  he  saw  that  they  were  executed.  No  play  about  him. 
What  he  said  he  meant.  The  government  had  already 
regretted  his  promotion.  They  wanted  to  sleep  on  their 
late  exertions  (fright)  and  Bonaparte  would  keep  tickling 
'em  awake.  Some  scratched.  Even  Barras  looked  af- 
fronted. What  devil's  luck  that  he'd  remembered  the  name 
of  a  young  man  who  stood  on  no  ceremony. 

All  this  was  clear  as  a  pike-staff  to  Bonaparte.  It  came 
also — in  a  dreary  way — to  the  knowledge  of  the  old  horse. 
That  long-suffering  animal  was  kept  going  from  morning 
to  night.  And  when  at  length,  he  put  out  his  knees  straight 
and  refused  to  budge,  Bonaparte  merely  clambered  on  the 
back  of  his  brother,  that  is  to  say,  a  fresh  mount  of  equal 
merit.  The  government  did  not  get  off,  not  a  jot. 

Prices  fell.  Sugar  went  down  from  three  hundred  to 
two  hundred  and  ninety-five  francs  the  pound.  That 
impressed  everyone.  At  once  General  Street  advanced  in 
favor.  "He  is  bringing  back  the  good  old  times,"  they 
said,  no  doubt  remembering  in  veneration  the  line  of  the 
Bourbons.  "Great  legislators  and  great  kings,"  they  said. 
There  is  nothing  so  extraordinary  as  reaction.  He  knew 
it,  that  little  man,  biting  his  nails  on  a  rickety  chair,  wait- 
ing to  break  up. 

He  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience  to  be  gone.  Rat  or 
no  rat,  that  little  attic  was  a  poisonous  hole.  How  he'd 
suffered  there!  He'd  been  held  up,  held  up  for  years! 
He  frowned.  Fancy,  keeping  him  waiting!  What  a 
preposterous  notion,  the  work,  no  doubt,  of  some  busy- 
body in  the  world  of  fatality  .  .  .  he'd  like  to  whip  her. 
He  smiled  at  his  fancy.  After  all,  whoever  she  was,  she'd 
come  round.  The  barriers  were  down.  There  was  nothing 
to  prevent  him  going  on.  A  very  great  concession.  He'd 
take  advantage  of  every  opportunity  offered  him.  Where 


LOVE  191 

not  offered,  he'd  help  himself.  There  ?ou  have  his  prin- 
ciples in  a  nutshell. 

He  heard  his  servant  climbing  the  stairs.  Presently  he 
stood  before  him,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand. 

"Everything  is  in  order,  citoyen  general." 

The  general  slipped  his  right  hand  into  a  pocket  of  his 
new  coat  and  drew  out  a  brand-new  green  netted  silk  purse, 
and  handed  Constant  a  broad  piece  of  silver. 

"I'm  dining  at  home,"  he  said.  "Five  o'clock,  sharp. 
I  want  a  good  dinner  for  two.  Soup,  fish,  meat  and 
pudding.  I'll  send  round  the  wine  and  the  fruit."  (He 
looked  at  his  watch,  a  battered  old  thing  which  had  served 
his  father  and  his  grandfather  before  him.)  "I  want  a 
bunch  of  flowers  on  the  dinner-table,  and  another  one  in 
the  sitting-room." 

"Bien,  M.  le  general." 

The  general  had  rented  a  furnished  apartment  in  the 
Rue  Bigol,  quite  a  gentleman's  residence,  you  understand. 
We  are  sure  Constant  would  never  have  entered  his  service 
if  he  had  continued  to  live  in  his  attic  in  the  mean  street 
off  Notre  Dame.  Besides,  there  would  have  been  no  place 
for  him.  Besides,  who  has  ever  heard  of  a  "beggar"  in 
an  attic  keeping  his  valet?  He  wasn't  a  beggar,  not  his 
master;  no,  said  Constant,  with  a  triumphant  expression. 
If  your  valet  believes  in  you,  then  indeed  you  are  a 
great  man. 

Constant  briskly,  with  the  help  of  an  outside  porter, 
trundled  his  master's  barrow  to  his  princely  lodgings,  but 
Bonaparte  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  move. 

His  empty  garret  held  attractions.  Through  the  dim 
window-panes  a  ray  of  sunshine — shy  as  a  fledgling — 
peeped  at  him.  A  lucky  enough  omen,  which  escaped  his 
attention.  We  mention  it  as  a  very  unique  circumstance. 
A  tiny  nerve  in  the  general's  left  temple  throbbed — it 
kept  on  throbbing.  You  could  see  it  distinctly  under  the 
clear  pallor  of  his  skin.  It  was  a  good  profile — clean-cut 
and  regular.  The  forehead  was  broad  and  powerful.  The 
lips  sensitive  as  a  woman's.  Yet  it  was  a  hard  face. 


192  LOVE 

It  is  always  more  or  less  of  a  wrench  to  say  good-bye. 
To  stand  at  the  cross-roads  of  Life  and  look  back  at  the 
way  we  have  come.  In  this  room  he  had  conquered  phys- 
ical weakness.  He  had  starved  here.  He  had  worked  here. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  prayed,  prayed  to  the  unknown  God. 

In  the  plenitude  of  his  confidence  he  took  another  dip 
into  his  treasure-trove.  .  .  .  "Look  not  back  on  that 
which  has  been  but  look  forward.  Be  not  thou  blind  and 
foolish.  .  .  ."  He  did  not  read  further.  He  couldn't 
have  read  better.  He  studied  the  bare  wall  opposite  him. 
No  mystic  hand  wrote  upon  it  letters  of  fire.  Neverthe- 
less, he  shivered.  His  forehead  contracted.  His  mobile 
lips  quivered.  Every  sound  was  intensified.  His  forsaken 
home  was  full  of  spirits.  He  could  hear  them  chattering 
and  freely  discussing  his  prospects.  "Eh,  eh !"  they  called, 
"is  it  worth  while?  Is  anything  worth  while?  There  is 
no  tiredness  equal  to  that  of  a  tired  brain.  Lie  down 
and  rest,  Napoleon." 

He  heard  them  wailing,  these  insane,  envious  imps.  He 
laughed  them  to  scorn.  He  turned  his  back  on  them  and 
ran  down  the  stairs  like  a  boisterous  schoolboy.  He  never 
turned  to  look  back.  At  a  distance  he  heard  the  spirits 
in  procession  wailing,  chattering,  fighting,  tumbling, 
shouting.  .  .  . 

In  the  street  below  a  familiar  voice  accosted  him.  I 
tell  you,  before  its  friendly  human  accents  every  ghost 
in  the  place  became  dumb,  scared  out  of  existence,  I 
expect.  It  was  such  a  triumph  seeing  her  there,  waiting 
for  him  outside  his  street  door. 

"Good  morning,  general." 

He  beamed  at  her.  She  was  his  oldest  friend  in  Paris, 
the  old  chestnut-hawker.  Once  before  she  had  met  him 
at  the  cross-roads,  one  winter  morning  when  he  had  not 
had  the  needful  penny  to  buy  food.  To-day  he  was  a 
rich  man. 

He  stood  awhile  in  the  sunshine— the  street  was  empty 
at  this  noonday  hour,  this  little,  crooked,  mean  street, 
where  the  poor  housed. 


LOVE  193 

"How  is  trade?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  doing  famously,  my  son." 

"Here  is  a  piece  of  silver — for  luck."  (How  his  young 
eyes  shone!) 

"I  thank  you  kindly,  general.  May  the  saints  protect 
you." 

"They  will!     They  will!" 

"They  tell  me  you  are  going  away." 

"Not  from  Paris." 

"That's   right." 

"If  I  do,  mother,  I'll  come  back  again." 

She  laughed  good-humoredly.  "I  warrant  you  will.  In 
a  gold  coach  drawn  by  twelve  white  horses." 

He  colored  up  with  pleasure. 

"Twelve  white  horses!"  he  repeated.  "It  will  be 
splendid." 

And  off  he  set — excessively  rapidly. 

"Chestnuts — hot  chestnuts,  four  a  penny!"  yelled  the 
lady,  tucking  the  piece  of  silver  into  the  wide  leg  of  her 
stocking. 

It  is  pleasanter  going  shopping  with  a  full  purse  than 
on  limited  credit.  As  the  general  swung  along  the  streets, 
he  jingled  his  money  in  his  pockets  and  he  whistled  (out 
of  tune).  A  few  people  recognized  him.  One  or  two 
civilians  took  their  hats  off  to  him,  which  pleased  him 
enormously.  He  did  love  a  little  attention.  It  was  as 
novel  a  sensation  to  him  as  money  in  his  pocket.  He  was 
going  home  to  a  magnificent  dinner;  and  not  only  that, 
he  was  entertaining  a  very  prominent  member  of  the 
government,  who  had  accepted  his  invitation  "with  the 
greatest  pleasure."  "The  honor  is  on  my  side,  citizen," 
he  had  said,  waving  aside  Bonaparte's  implied  compliment 
to  himself.  In  his  heart  of  hearts  Bonaparte  knew  that 
unconsciously  the  prominent  member  of  the  government 
had  spoken  the  truth.  ...  he  didn't  know  it.  Paris 
was  full  of  ignoramuses  that  brilliant  October  morning, 
Anno  1795. 

In  the  congested  Rue  St.  Honore  the  general  got  along 


194  LOVE 

with  greater  freedom  than  politeness.  Outside  St.  Roche's 
riddled  church  door  he  paused,  with  a  queer  look  in  his 
upturned  eyes.  There  was  something  crafty  in  his  expres- 
sion, not  altogether  pleasant  to  watch.  The  old  chestnut- 
seller  would  have  been  horrified,  believing  that  "her  gen- 
eral" had  a  heart  to  match  his  prospective  coach. 

It  was  at  number  twenty-seven  the  general  paused,  and 
set  the  shrill  shop-bell  a-pealing  as  he — very  unceremoni- 
ously— entered  M.  Pierre's  elegant  outfitting  warehouse. 
Quite  a  palatial  place — the  two  departments  measuring 
at  least  twenty  feet  square,  allowing  for  recesses.  Not 
even  a  tall  man,  without  an  effort  or  two,  could  have 
reached  the  oak-beamed  ceiling.  The  walls  were  lined 
with  show-cases,  and  without  doubt  M.  Pierre  junior — 
who  now  advanced  towards  an  unknown  customer — was 
a  walking  advertisement  for  the  firm. 

"What  is  your  pleasure,  sir?"  he  said  with  his  most 
superior  bow,  only  kept  for  very  particular  patrons. 
"General  Street"  had  not  previously  dealt  with  them,  but 
the  junior  member  of  the  firm  recognized — by  instinct — 
an  Important  Person  (nothing  but  capitals  can  give  you 
an  idea  of  the  situation). 

"Six  of  your  best  dress-shirts " 

"Yes,  sir " 

"A  dozen  linen  collars " 

«Yes,  sir " 

"A  dozen  pairs  of  socks — not  too  thick " 

"Yes,  sir."     (Each  bow  was  better  than  the  last.) 

"Do  you  keep  slippers?" 

"We  have  the  best  selection  in  Paris,  sir.  Red  morocco 
is  very  fashionable  this  season,  and  gives  every  satisfaction 
in  wear,  sir." 

Napoleon  seated  himself  on  the  red  velvet  couch  facing 
the  full-length  gilt- framed  mirror,  fitted  with  a  marble- 
topped  console  table,  on  which  stood  a  blue-and-white 
striped  Venetian  water-bottle  and  tumbler  on  a  round 
tray  to  match.  (As  we  have  intimated,  M.  Pierre's  prem- 
ises were  the  last  word  in  refined  elegance.)  Besides  the 


LOVE  195 

sofa,  the  shop  contained  four  velvet-upholstered  chairs  and 
a  strip  of  Brussels  carpet  gorgeous  as  any  swollen-headed 
imitation  rose  need  be — a  handsome  design.  You  see  it? 
On  a  black  ground,  for  all  the  world  like  a  piece  of  lady's 
cross-stitch  needlework. 

Napoleon  kicked  off  his  field-boot.  The  boot  pained 
M.  Pierre  junior's  feelings  immensely — it  was  a  common- 
looking  article.  He  coughed  and  passed  a  smooth  finger 
over  a  smooth  lip. 

"A  hundred  francs,  sir." 

"Devilish  dear " 

"Is  that  more  comfortable,  sir?  I  wouldn't  advise  a 
larger  size.  It  only  spoils  a  gentleman's  foot." 

"That'll  do.      Send  them   home." 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure,  sir.     On  account,  sir?" 

"No,  I'll  pay." 

"Just  as  you  please,  sir." 

"Make  me  out  the  bill — receipted." 

"I  don't  know  if  these  might  interest  you?"  He  placed 
some  handkerchiefs  on  the  counter.  "Purest  China  silk — 
feel  the  quality,  sir.  Having  a  large  stock  on  hand,  we 
are  selling  them  at  a  sacrifice." 

Napoleon  turned  his  back  on  the  handkerchiefs  going 
cheap,  and  looked  into  the  tempting  interior  of  a  show- 
case. On  the  centre  shelf  stood  a  pair  of  tiny  shoes  made 
of  ruby  satin,  with  little  rosettes  to  match,  and  furred 
with  white  rabbit-skins. 

"I'll  take  those.  Do  them  up  in  a  parcel,"  said  the 
general,  pointing  to  the  shoes  in  question.  "Send  the 
other  things  round.  General  Bonaparte,  Rue  Bigol, 
No.  22." 

M.  Pierre  poised  his  pen  in  mid-air,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
uncertainty. 

"Exactly,  sir,"  he  murmured,  handing  the  general  his 
receipted  bill,  which  he  carefully  scanned. 

"You  have  not  charged  for  my  last  purchase,"  he  said. 
And  he  lifted  his  eyes  suddenly,  looking  the  junior  full 
in  the  face. 


196  LOVE 

"A  thousand  pardons,  sir.     My  mistake  entirely,  sir.'* 

Young  M.  Pierre  moved  as  a  lily  sways,  across  the 
narrow  shop  (narrow — what  a  slip  of  the  pen!)  and 
opened  the  show-case  and  fetched  out  the  little  ruby 
slippers. 

"They  are  a  very  small  size,  sir.  Rather  sweet."  The 
junior  gave  a  faint  intimation  that  he  could — under  very 
great  pressure — laugh.  "He-e!  he-e!" 

It  was  heartless  of  Napoleon  to  freeze  that  elegant 
exhibition,  but  he  certainly  did  so.  The  assistant  drew 
a  face  as  long  as  if  seen  in  a  transformation  mirror.  His 
gravity  was  really  awe-inspiring. 

He  handed  Napoleon  in  exchange  for  a  bundle  of  notes 
a  diminutive  parcel. 

"Good  morning,  sir.  A  very  fine  morning,  sir.  Quite 
seasonable  weather,  sir.  Thank  you  very  much,  sir.  I'm 
exceedingly  obliged,  sir." 

The  bell  jingled.  The  shop-door  opened,  and  the 
general  bounded  down  the  street,  carrying  his  little  parcel 
by  a  looped  string  on  his  little  finger. 

We  may  as  well  state  it  here  as  elsewhere  that  Napoleon 
never  indulged  a  fancy  unless  based  on  fact.  Which  is 
streets  above  a  gamble.  He  had  purchased  those  slippers 
for  his  prospective  bride.  He  had  taken  the  measure  of 
her  foot  in  a  lover's  enraptured  glance.  Truth  to  tell, 
her  feet  were  tiny,  or  else  the  slippers  would  have  pinched 
sorely.  For  all  the  accuracy  of  his  eye  in  some  things, 
in  others  he  swept  wide  of  the  mark.  Take  his  lady's 
character,  for  instance.  For  extravagance  he  read  pru- 
dence ;  for  flightiness,  sobriety.  Faith  eternal  he  mistook, 
reading  it  in  the  face  of  every  light  fancy;  he  saw  good- 
ness and  sweetness  where  there  were  only  grace  and 
charity.  Who  shall  say  which  is  the  better  part?  .  .  . 
So  he  went  on  his  way  rejoicing.  Hope  took  the  shape 
of  a  two-headed  eagle;  one  face  was  the  face  of  love — the 
other  bore  the  stamp  of  greed,  ambition,  pride. 


And  you,  reader,   if  perchance  you  have  more 


of 


LOVE  197 

prosaic  than  a  romantic  turn  of  mind,  go  to  the  Musee 
Cluny  the  next  time  you  are  in  Paris,  and  satisfy  your 
curiosity.  There,  in  a  glass  case,  you  will  see  the  identical 
pair  of  shoes  young  Napoleon  carried  home  that  morning 
long  ago,  to  lay  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress.  The  little 
slippers  are  labelled  and  ticketed  in  true  museum  style 
(even  museums  can't  kill  romance).  "Property  of  the 
Empress  Josephine.  Gift  of  Mme.  X.  No.  28402."  .  .  . 
In  the  hollow  of  her  shoe  you  can  read  her  story.  It 
requires  so  very  little  to  recall  the  past — a  scrap  of  silk 
will  do  as  much,  the  scent  of  a  flower,  a  faded  picture, 
the  inflection  of  a  voice.  Who  dare  to  say  that  Life  is 
void  of  interest  or  proper  gilding?  Romance  brightens 
everything  it  touches.  There  is  no  glamour  like  to  it,  when 
you  come  to  writing  books.  It  robs  tediousness  of  dull- 
ness. It  creates  a  garden  in  a  flower-pot.  It  sends  the 
color  into  a  dead  face.  It  is  worth  a  king's  ransom  to 
any  sensible  person.  We'll  hold  on  to  it  by  hook  and 
by  crook. — Amen. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

VEUVE  JOSEPHINE  DE  BEAUHARNAIS  wiped  her  pretty 
eyes  with  a  morsel  of  cambric.  She  was  standing  on 
the  hearth-rug,  leaning  one  rounded  elbow  on  the  marble 
mantelpiece.  There  was  a  small  wood  fire  in  the  grate, 
emitting  a  gentle  heat  and  a  faint  aromatic  scent.  The 
light  was  also  tempered.  In  October  the  days  draw  in 
quickly. 

Twilight  is  always  a  becoming  hour,  and  at  certain 
seasons  full  of  witchery  and  suggestion.  The  widow  had 
a  basket  of  lilies  in  a  corner  of  her  charming  sitting-room 
— greys  and  pinks  are  so  restful,  and  tarnished  gilding 
and  satinwood  furniture  always  look  well.  Tears,  some- 
how or  other,  suited  Josephine.  She  must  have  known 
it,  or  she  would  not  have  cried  so  often.  Coquetry  has 
a  thousand  subtle  distinctions.  Her  very  behavior  to 
M.  Paul  Barras  was  eloquent  of  this. 

That  harassed  gentleman  was  sitting  in  a  comfortable 
winged  chair  by  the  fire,  looking  supremely  unhappy. 

"Don't  cry,  darling,"  he  suggested,  fingering  his 
gorgeous  sword-knot.  M.  Barras  always  dressed  with 
ceremony.  His  uniforms  were  magnificent.  He  was  a 
fine,  tall,  well-set-up  man  with  a  foolish  face.  One  of 
those  cocksure  faces  which  sooner  or  later  land  their 
owners  in  the  basket,  that  is  to  say,  into  disgrace.  You 
remember — but  that  is  another  story. 

Even  Barras  felt  he  had  acted  precipitately.  It  is 
always  well  to  be  off  with  the  old  love  before  taking  on 
with  the  new.  We  rather  fancy  that  Josephine's  tears 
(mock)  were  of  a  jealous  nature.  She  did  not  in  the  least 
mind  parting  with  Barras,  but  she  hated  Terezia  getting 
hold  of  him — and  such  a  grip,  too.  The  man's  head  was 
clearly  turned.  All  Paris  talked  of  his  latest  infatuation. 

198 


LOVE  199 

Terezia  had  no  modesty,  not  a  scrap  of  decency,  really. 
Look  at  her  own  case.  Did  ever  anyone  conduct  their 
love-affairs  with  greater  reticence?  No  one  had  occasion 
to  breathe  a  word  against  her  character.  If  poor  dear 
Alexandre  had  risen  from  the  dead  he  would  have  had 
reason  to  compliment  her  on  her  behavior.  Josephine 
sighed. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  said,  "how  sad  life  is!  I  am  so  alone, 
so  utterly  alone." 

A  cut  at  him,  you  perceive.  He  winced.  Cruel  words 
and  a  bad  conscience  stab  as  much  as  anything.  At  that 
moment  Barras  disliked  la  belle  Tallien.  He  wished  to 
heaven  he  had  never  met  her  and  that  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  He  was  the  real  cause  of 
the  mischief!  Damn  his  impudence!  How  dare  he  come 
courting  in  his  province !  Still,  it  might  be  a  good  match 
for  her.  If  Josephine  married  Bonaparte,  he,  Barras, 
would  be  free  to  pay  his  respects  to  Madame  Tallien. 
(Funny  how  sometimes  we  get  hold  of  a  wrong  word.) 
Barras'  idea  of  respect  towards  females  was  excessively 
personal,  and  not  at  all  the  usual  acceptance  of  the  term. 
In  fact,  his  reading  had  sent  Madame  Barras — there 
was  a  legitimate  Madame  Barras — years  ago  into  the 
provinces,  to  indulge  in  religious  and  country  pursuits 
on  a  separation  allowance.  More  than  half  the  world 
was  ignorant  of  her  existence.  Yet  weak-minded  Barras 
— with  the  fine  figure  and  the  foolish  face — found  her 
useful.  She  kept  him  from  blundering  into  a  second 
unhappy  marriage. 

"Sit  down,  Josephine,  and  let  us  talk  things  over.  Look 
upon  me  as  your  father-confessor." 

He  let  his  sword  rattle  to  his  side  and  looked  up  at  her 
adoringly. 

"There  isn't  a  woman  a  patch  on  you  for  looks." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  mollified. 

She  came  round  and  put  her  arm  round  his  stiff  gold- 
laced  collar. 

"Paul,  Paul,"  she  said,  "you  big,  bad  boy.    I'm  ashamed 


200  LOVE 

of  you,  sir.  You'll  be  punished.  Oh,  won't  you  suffer, 
that's  all!" 

"I  don't  mind,  as  long  as  you  are  happy." 

He  kissed  her  and  held  her  against  his  breast.  In  the 
complete  silence  which  followed  he  felt  her  heart  beating 
against  his  own.  A  couple  of  tears  trembled  on  the  lashes 
of  her  closed  eyes.  A  little  smile  hovered  round  her  lips. 
A  log  sputtered  and  burst  into  flame.  The  lilies  were 
reminiscent  of  summer  woods.  For  a  moment  they  were 
completely  happy. 

She  turned  to  her  seat  on  the  little  sofa  and  sat  up 
primly  and  smoothed  her  hair.  "I  ought  not  to  spoil 
you,"  she  said. 

"Under  other  circumstances,  what  a  good  husband  I 
would  have  made  you!" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Josephine  demurely. 

"It  is  true.     Believe  me,  or  believe  me  not,  it  is  true." 

She  shook  her  nutbrown  curls.    "I  believe  you,"  she  said. 

"I'm  an  unhappy  man." 

"Your  behavior  is  scandalous,  sir." 

She  turned  her  head  aside.  He  had  struck  the  wrong 
note.  Talking  of  his  unhappiness,  to  be  sure!  He  had 
only  himself  to  blame. 

"At  least  I  have  my  children.  They  love  their  poor 
little  mother  tenderly." 

"Not  so  much  as  I  do." 

"You  are  telling  the  most  wicked  stories." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  reproach  him  for 
his  unfaithfulness.  To  fling  in  his  face  Terezia  Tallien's 
potent  name.  She  resisted  because  she  knew  it  would 
only  make  matters  worse.  If  love  fails,  pride  is  twice  as 
valuable.  No,  Josephine  wasn't  at  all  such  a  fool  as 
you'd  imagine  at  the  first  glance. 

"Let  us  talk  seriously,  mon  ami,"  she  said,  from  her 
place  on  the  little  sofa  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth, 
the  sofa  on  which  her  admirer,  General  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, had  sat  tongue-tied  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour 
last  evening.  An  "eternal"  visit,  you  understand.  In- 


LOVE  201 

stinctively  she  knew  the  awkward,  shy  young  soldier  was 
paying  court  to  her,  and  she  had  had  all  the  world  of 
a  difficulty  not  to  laugh  in  his  solemn  face.  They  had 
talked  of  the  drama.  And  house  property.  She  had  com- 
plimented him  on  his  victory.  He  had  not  listened.  His 
big  hungry  eyes  had  had  a  far-away  look,  which  might 
have  meant  anything.  On  leaving,  he  had  pressed  her 
hand  as  in  a  vice.  "I  am  coming  again,"  he  had  whispered. 
"Charmed,"  she  had  replied  faintly.  Really,  he  was  rather 
overpowering.  She  turned  the  conversation  on  the  general. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  she  asked. 

"He  did  very  well,  madam,  the  other  day." 

"You  were  pleased?" 

"My  confidence  was  justified." 

"I  am  afraid  he  is  conceited." 

"I  know  he  is  obstinate." 

"That  makes  it  worse." 

Josephine  twisted  the  rings  round  her  fingers.  "It  is 
my  duty  to  marry  again,"  she  said.  "Would  he  do  as 
a  husband?" 

The  little  ormolu  clock  over  the  fireplace  was  striking 
the  half-hour. 

"Half-past  four,"  said  Barras — not  moving.  "I  must 
be  going." 

"I've  got  hot  ham  and  pancakes  for  dinner,"  said  Jo- 
sephine. A  display  of  temper  seldom  keeps  a  man  faith- 
ful, but  a  good  dinner — as  we  all  know — has  worked  won- 
ders. Madame  de  Beauharnais  seized  her  opportunity. 

"Don't  tempt  me,"  he  said.  "What  has  your  young 
man  been  doing?" 

"He  wrote  to  me  yesterday.     Like  to  see  it?" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  and  took  from  the  mantel- 
shelf a  little  box  covered  in  ivory  satin — a  tiny  thing 
such  as  ladies  keep  their  thimbles  in  and  their  most  useless 
pair  of  scissors.  It  was  shaped  like  a  heart  and  it  con- 
tained a  note  of  two  words:  "Au  destin";  also  a  violet 
which  once  had  been  fresh  and  which  now  was  dead — 
except  for  its  meaning. 


202  LOVE 

Josephine  handed  the  general's  communication  to  B  ar- 
ras, pressing  the  violet  to  her  mouth.  "A  pretty  idea," 
she  said.  "What  does  it  mean?" 

"An  offer  of  marriage,  I  fancy.  An  odd,  crabbed  hand 
— but  there  is  character  in  it." 

"Yes." 

"He  acted  admirably  the  other  day.  'Pon  my  soul,  I 
couldn't  have  done  better  myself.  He  treated  us  as 
ciphers." 

"Is  that  clever?" 

"When  are  you  going  to  marry  him?" 

"Never." 

"Don't  be  silly,  precious.  I  tell  you  General  Street  will 
soon  command  a  town,  very  likely  many  towns 

"I  don't  particularly  like  him." 

"Does  that  matter?" 

She  sighed.     "Stay  to  dinner." 

"He  is  playing  a  deep  game." 

"/s  he  clever?" 

"Clever!"  Barras  got  up  and  strode  to  the  window. 
"He's  a  kite  in  a  high  wind.  Presently  he  will  sail  over 
all  our  heads." 

"And  you  advise  me  to  act  as  ballast?" 

"That's  it.'v 

"I  don't  like  him,"  she  repeated. 

"Youth,  courage,  talent — what  more  do  you  want?" 

"Position." 

M.  Barras  laughed. 

"That  young  rascal .  Sorry,  darling,  I  am  dining 

to-day  at  five  sharp  (his  confounded  italics)  with  General 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Home 
Forces.  Isn't  that  title  long  enough  for  you  to  curl  your 
little  tongue  over?" 

"No." 

"Ma'am!" 

"I  mean  it.  What  is  the  good  of  an  empty  title?  It 
is  a  trumpery  excuse  for  flattering  incompetency." 

"Phew!     Who's  been  teaching  you  long  words?" 


LOVE  203 

"Napoleon  Bonaparte." 

She  laughed  as  a  young  girl  laughs — a  ripple  of  pure 
enjoyment.  "Cher,  cher  and!  If  ever  a  woman  possessed 
a  man,  soul,  body  and  mind,  I've  got  the  little  general 
under  my  thumb!  He  loves  me!"  She  spread  out  her 
ten  fingers  and  flung  her  arms  wide  apart.  "It  is  foolish 
to  love  a  woman  to  distraction." 

"Josephine,"  he  said,  coming  forward  and  catching  her 
in  his  arms,  "I  honor  you  for  your  sentiments.  The  fact 
is,  I'm  eaten  up  with  jealousy." 

"Yet  you  advise  me  to  marry  him.  Men  are  cruel." 
She  smoothed  out  the  general's  billet  doux.  "Destiny," 
she  read;  "destiny — who  can  escape  from  destiny?  If 
fate  wills  it,  before  next  spring  I'll  be  Madame  Bona- 
parte." 

He  took  up  his  hat.  "And  you'll  have  the  laugh  over 
us." 

There  was  real  tragedy  in  her  wide-opened  eyes. 
"Barras,  I'm  afraid." 

"Nonsense!  You  are  the  pluckiest  woman  I  know. 
Terezia " 

"Be  quiet.  Don't  mention  her  name  to  me.  I've  just 
calmed  down." 

She  trailed  after  him — in  the  firelight,  on  the  soft 
carpet,  a  study  of  femininity  and  carefully  chosen  chiffons. 
She  was  graceful  as  a  gazelle  in  her  fawn-and-gold  gown, 
her  brown  hair  clasped  by  a  jewelled  bandeau.  Her  little 
breasts  heaving  with  real  or  simulated  passion — who  can 
tell  the  difference? 

"I  expect  you  to  make  it  worth  my  while." 

He  gave  her  an  ironical  bow.  No  man  likes  to  be 
brought  up  to  the  scratch  against  his  will.  She  was 
taking  an  unwarranted  liberty!  .  .  .  what  an  unwhole- 
some traffic  there  was  in  good-nature!  These  thoughts, 
or  something  like  them,  slipped  through  his  vacillating 
mind  as  fish  through  water.  She  saw  them.  So  she 
smiled  sweetly. 

"You  have  the  greatest  authority  in  France,"  she  said. 


204  LOVE 

"A  stroke  of  your  pen  would  settle  the  question  of  my 
— marriage." 

What  man  is  impervious  to  flattery? — not  Barras. 

He  had  his  shapely  hand  on  the  door-handle  and  his 
eyes  on  her  face. 

"He  can  but  fail " 

"There's  something  in   that,"   said  Barras. 

" — or  win,"  she  added.  "If  I  married  Bonaparte,  I'd 
naturally  wish  him  to  get  on." 

"Naturally." 

"Take  it  or  leave  it,  sir.  Either  I  marry  a  man  with 
a  future  or  I  don't  marry  at  all." 

Barras  forgot  his  manners.  He  let  go  of  the  door- 
handle and  strode  across  the  grey  pile  carpet,  a  red  flush 
discoloring  his  forehead. 

"He's  put  you  up  to  it!  I  know  him.  He's  capable 
of  anything  to  push  his  own  interests!" 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  stepped  back,  proud  and  cool 
as  you  please. 

"You  are  wrong.  General  Bonaparte  has  never,  to 
me  at  least,  breathed  a  word  on  the  subject.  He  wouldn't 
frighten  a  mouse.  Far  less  begin  a  difficult  subject." 

"A  remarkable " 

"Hush,  Paul.  He  is  made  to  win.  Only  give  him  his 
chance.  Kiss  me,  and  say  you'll  do  it  for  my  sake?  You 
have  been  so  good  to  me." 

Half-an-hour  later  M.  Barras'  smart  chariot  drove  rap- 
idly to  No.  22  Rue  Bigol.  As  it  was,  he  was  unconscion- 
ably late  for  his  appointment.  He'd  have  to  apologize  to 
his  young  host.  Barras  disliked  appearing  in  the  wrong. 
On  second  thoughts  he  decided  to  say  nothing. 

He  sat  back  in  his  comfortable  carriage,  wondering  a 
little  at  the  turn  of  events.  To  please  Madame  de  Beau- 
harnais he'd  do  a  great  deal.  The  young  man  would  find 
his  measure  in  Italy.  Barras  had  no  illusions  on  the 
subject.  For  years  everything  in  the  army  had  been 
going  from  bad  to  worse.  There  was  open  mutiny  in  the 


LOVE  205 

ranks,  pay  in  arrears,  no  food  to  mention,  insufficient 
clothing,  and  discipline  nil.  Augereau  had  told  him  the 
truth  with  many  a  bitter  jest.  He,  Augereau,  had  no 
wish  to  take  over  the  command  himself,  and  suffer  the 
ignominy  of  certain  defeat.  Barras  in  the  plenitude  of 
his  mercy  felt  sorry  for  the  little  general.  "Poor  devil," 
he  thought,  "they'll  pluck  him  like  a  fowl,  a  poor  speci- 
men at  that.  He  is  altogether  too  ambitious  and  vision- 
ary for  this  workaday  world.  .  .  .  Supposing  he  comes 
through?"  Barras,  with  a  yawn,  left  it  in  the  hands  of 
providence.  He  smiled  at  the  recollection  of  Josephine's 
gratitude.  How  sweet  her  voice  had  sounded  in  his  ear! 
How  soft  the  touch  of  her  little  clinging  hands!  She 
had  first  caressed  him  and  then  turned  to  embrace  For- 
tune. Fortune  was  the  dog  of  the  house.  The  widow's 
pet,  with  a  romantic  history  of  his  own,  proving  him 
the  most  sagacious  and  courageous  mongrel  that  ever 
lived.  He  was  also  universally  disliked  by  Josephine's 
friends  on  account  of  his  villainous  temper.  He  had  a 
fixed  habit  of  snapping  at  everyone  he  came  across.  Jose- 
phine said  it  was  so  dear  of  him.  He  meant  ever  so  well. 
Left  alone,  that  lady  sat  down  to  her  lonely  dinner  and 
quite  enjoyed  her  hot  ham  and  pancakes.  Afterwards  she 
wrote  a  little  note  and  asked  Clementine  to  take  it  round 
that  evening,  if  convenient  to  herself — Josephine  was  very 
considerate  of  her  servants.  Here  it  is.  It  is  quite  an 
historic  document.  How  little  she  realized  it! 

"6  BRUMAIRE  IV.  (27  October,  1795). 
"Why  don't  you  any  longer  come  and  see  a  friend  who 
is  very  sincerely  attached  to  you?  You  are  committing 
a  great  mistake — frankly,  the  lady  is  devoted  to  your 
interests.  Come  and  lunch  with  me  to-morrow.  I  must 
see  you  and  talk  over  matters.  Good-night,  dear.  I 
embrace  you  tenderly." 

Considering  she  had  seen  the  young  man  no  later  than 
yesterday,  there  is  a  slight  unreasonableness  in  her  re- 


206  LOVE 

proach.  What  a  delightful  surprise  for  him!  She  had 
got  the  date  wrong,  too.  He  would  love  her  for  it.  Every- 
thing she  did  and  everything  she  said  was  perfect  in  his 
eyes. 

After  Clementine — the  wonderful  Clementine — had  gone 
on  her  errand,  Josephine  sat  back  in  her  deep  winged  pink 
velvet  chair,  musing  over  many  things.  .  .  .  She  did  not 
mind  the  awful  prices  now.  He  would  get  her  things. 
He  would  see  to  her  comfort.  .  .  .  He  was  desperately 
in  love,  poor  dear  Bonaparte.  She  wondered  what  his 
people  were  like.  He  had  never  mentioned  them.  .  .  . 
What  a  droll  young  man,  who  did  not  know  how  to  talk ! 
How  will  he  propose?  On  his  knees,  or  by  letter?  "Hon- 
ored madam  .  .  ."  she  could  fancy  his  labored  composi- 
tion. His  writing  was  vile  and  quite  illegible.  Not  that 
it  mattered.  .  .  . 

Some  one  snored.  It  was  not  Josephine  but  Fortune. 
Both  are  asleep.  The  clock  ticks  and  the  minutes  march — 
those  restless,  ceaseless  minutes  who  remorselessly  carry 
our  lives  away.  "Sun,  stand  still!"  But  it  never  does: 
never,  never. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ON  arriving  at  his  new  quarters  the  general  found 
everything  in  order,  apple-pie  order.  A  fire  burned 
on  the  sitting-room  hearth;  a  table  was  laid  for  two  in 
the  adjoining  dining-room.  Even  the  fruit  the  general 
had  chosen  had  been  arranged  in  a  charming  china  dish 
and  the  wine  had  been  decanted. 

Proud  as  a  peacock  who,  for  the  first  time,  spreads  his 
tail,  Bonaparte  inspected  his  premises.  He  found  them 
excellent.  He  did  not  say  as  much.  In  fact,  he  dis- 
sembled his  pride  and  pointed  out  a  minor  improvement 
or  two.  "Pull  that  table  round,  there.  And  I'll  want 
a  rug  here.  .  .  ." 

In  the  ante-room  his  new  clerk  was  busy  with  his 
books.  Like  Constant,  he  was  a  very  polite  young  man. 
Bonaparte  exchanged  two  or  three  word>  with  him.  He 
asked  him  his  age  and  if  he  was  married.  The  young  man 
replied  that  he  was  twenty-five  years  old  and  a  bachelor. 
"Hein!"  said  Bonaparte,  as  if  he  thought  very  badly  of 
him.  The  poor  young  man  blushed  deeply.  Upon  which 
Bonaparte  glanced  at  his  figures ;  made  a  rapid  calculation 
on  his  fingers  and  cleared  up  wonderfully.  "I  like  neat 
work,"  he  said.  "Start  to-morrow  at  six."  "Yes,  sir." 
There  was  no  question  of  reluctance.  The  general  him- 
self, so  they  said,  began  work  at  a  much  earlier  hour. 
He  was  very  keen  about  it,  too.  His  new  command  had 
placed  on  his  shoulders  the  responsibility  of  restoring 
order  in  Paris.  One  of  his  first  measures  was  to  disarm 
the  civil  population.  No  doubt  the  secretary  was  enter- 
ing a  list  of  names  of  citizens  who'd  require  persuasion 
to  give  up  their  weapons.  The  majority,  of  course, 

207 


208  LOVE 

showed  no  fight  at  all.  They  seemed  to  have  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  obeying  the  general. 

"Go,"  he  said. 

The   clock  pointed  five  minutes  to  five. 

The  clerk  bowed,  shut  his  books,  and  went. 

Bonaparte  went  back  to  the  sitting-room.  By  one 
window — there  were  two  of  them — stood  his  writing-table 
— rather  a  bare,  plain  table,  with  no  garniture  to  speak  of. 
There  was  a  pair  of  pewter  candlesticks,  one  on  each  side 
of  a  rubbishy  glass  inkstand ;  a  portfolio  of  papers,  a  few 
books,  one  or  two  maps,  and  a  miniature  portrait  of  a 
lady.  The  portrait  was  enclosed  in  a  small  green  morocco 
case.  The  general  opened  it  and  looked  at  it. 

The  clock  struck  five. 

He  put  down  the  case,  and  walked  over  to  the  fire- 
place which  faced  the  entrance  door.  He  listened.  His 
guest  was  unpunctual. 

"He'll  pay  for  it,"  he  mumbled.  "A  little  addition 
to  his  score.  To  dare!" 

Probably  to  calm  his  feelings,  the  general  sat  down 
on  a  stiff  walnut  sofa  covered  with  old  green  rep,  placed 
against  the  wall,  facing  the  windows,  and  had  another  look 
at  the  little  book  he'd  happened  on  that  morning.  Children 
like  their  latest  possession  best.  He  put  his  hand  on  a 
leaf.  He  bent  forward,  the  light  was  poor  and  the  letter- 
press poorer.  The  page  was  disfigured  by  mildew.  It 
was  also  illuminated  by  a  charming  wreath  of  flowers,  the 
colors  as  fresh  as  when  they  were  painted.  The  flowers 
enclosed  some  verses,  called  The  Song  of  the  Bee. 

In  my  perfumed  garden, 
All  life  within  and  without, 
East,  West,  North,  South, 
I,  the  Queen  of  my  day. 

I  trace  in  the  shadows 

The  light  of  all  things; 

To  me  each  bird  sings 

And  the  sun  at  her  zenith  glows. 


LOVE  209 

Pearls  for  the  asking, 
Dewdrops,  an'  you  please. 
No  pain,  sorrow,  disease. 
Oh,  fair  is  my  morning 
Under  God's  wing. 

He  read  it  twice. 

Then  he  got  up  and  stretched  himself.  He  forgot  every- 
thing else  (for  the  moment)  except  his  feeling  of  elation. 
Was  it  not  a  message  inspired  by  triumph! 

As  a  slight  concession  to  his  feelings,  and  the  insult 
paid  to  his  good  dinner,  when  the  hall  bell  rang  the  gen- 
eral put  back  the  sitting-room  clock  half-an-hour.  As 
M.  B arras  hurried  into  the  room,  his  right  hand  extended 
in  cordial  greeting,  he  was  welcomed  by  five  melodious 
chimes.  He  looked  up,  perplexed. 

"To  the  minute,"  said  Bonaparte  genially.  His  bright 
eyes  swept  past  his  visitor's  person  to  his  man  in  the  back- 
ground. "Dinner,"  he  said. 

Constant  vanished.  Before  the  gentlemen  had  had  time 
to  converse,  the  dining-room  doors,  to  the  left,  were  flung 
open. 

"Dinner  is  served,  citizen  general,"  announced  Constant 
in  a  clear  voice. 

"Let's  go  in.  Hot  soup  is  preferable  to  cold  soup  any 
day,  eh,  M.  Barras?" 

The  general  linked  his  arm  to  his  guest's  in  a  boyish, 
confidential  fashion.  His  eyes  twinkled. 

The  table  made  quite  a  show.  White  napery,  bur- 
nished silver  and  a  centre  pot  of  golden  begonias — quite 
a  new  variety  and  the  specialty  of  the  Maison  Henri,  the 
flower-shop  patronized  by  Madame  Josephine  de  Beau- 
liar  nais. 

The  general  sat  down,  still  smiling,  and  unfolded  his 
stiff  napkin.  Constant  had  lit  all  the  available  candles. 

"Comfortable  quarters,  sir,"  said  Barras. 

"They'll  do,"  said  Bonaparte,  with  an  indifferent  glance 


210  LOVE 

round  the  handsomely  appointed  room.  The  glance  of  a 
prince-connoisseur,  who  has  always  lived  in  palaces  and 
who  considerately  puts  up  with  inferior  lodgings.  A 
gentleman  creates  his  own  surroundings.  Barras,  who 
was  perfectly  aware  that  our  hero  had  that  day  vacated 
a  miserable  tenement  in  an  intolerable  street,  laughed  in 
his  sleeve  at  the  general's  airs.  .  .  .  By  Bacchus,  second 
to  none ! 

The  general  raised  his  glass  of  burgundy.  "A  man  in 
my  position  can't  afford  to  be  particular,"  he  said. 

"Ah,"  drawled  Barras,  after  returning  his  host's  com- 
pliment, giving  him  a  keen  glance.  "What  is  your  posi- 
tion, citizen?" 

"An  officer  on  his  trial." 

"No  doubt  you'll  give  every  Satisfaction." 

"No  doubt." 

Bonaparte's  voice  was  cool  as  a  cucumber.  Instead  of 
looking  nervous,  he  sat  back  in  his  fine  chair  with  a  super- 
cilious expression  on  his  face.  He  succeeded  in  making 
M.  Barras  regret  his  generosity.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
his  timely  memory  to-day  would  have  found  this  young 
man  in  precisely  the  same  position  he  had  occupied  a  fort- 
night ago — a  position  not  exactly  brilliant  for  an  am- 
bitious youth. 

"I  perceive  your  policy,  general.  You  mean  to  con- 
tinue as  you  have  begun,  and  teach  us  a  lesson  in  swift- 
ness and  determination." 

"A  waste  of  time,  sir." 

"Eh?" 

Barras  blinked  his  eyes.  He  was  positive  he  did  not  like 
this  young  man. 

"Swiftness  and  determination  are  born  in  you.  Lack- 
ing them,  it  is  best  to  take  things  quietly." 

"Ha!  ha!" 

M.  Barras  laughed  loudly. 

"  Ton  my  soul !  You  are  a  funny  one.  Talk  to  them, 
general.  Give  it  'em  hot.  I'll  watch  and  never  say  a 
word.  Ha!  ha!"  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  admiring  a 


LOVE  211 

silver  cup  in  front  of  him.  "That's  a  nice  piece  of  plate," 
he  said.  "Fine  lines  to  it." 

"I  am  glad  you  like  it,  sir." 

"I  like  everything  that  is  good.  I'll  trouble  you  for 
some  more  of  that  chicken." 

In  his  heart  M.  Barras  despised  the  silver  cup.  A 
piece  of  ostentatious  vulgarity,  he  told  himself,  on  a  par 
with  Bonaparte's  whole  behavior.  No  doubt  he'd  per- 
formed his  duty  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  government, 
who'd  paid  him  liberally  for  his  services.  He  ought  to  go 
down  on  his  knees  and  thank  them,  instead  of  riding  the 
high  horse  on  a  cloud  of  smoke.  True,  it  had  been  a 
good  shot,  the  rabble  had  scuttled  like  rabbits.  If  he, 
Barras,  had  known  how  easy  it  would  have  been  to  dislodge 
the  people — those  damned  people,  always  up  a  tree — he 
would  have  refrained  from  remembering  the  address  of  a 
young  man  without  ceremony. 

The  silence  lasted  quite  a  little  while.  It  was  broken 
by  Bonaparte. 

"I  believe  in  restitution,"  he  said. 

"No  doubt  a  whole  creed  up  your  sleeve." 

For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  keep  the  irony  out  of 
his  voice.  The  young  man  was  asking  for  it.  Anyone  with 
half  an  eye  could  see  he  was  presuming  on  his  services 
.  .  .  he'd  have  to  be  put  down. 

"A  strong  man  will  always  attract  attention,  general." 
He  said  that  to  tone  down  his  previous  remark. 

"People  will  gape.     It  means  nothing." 

"Absolutely  nothing." 

M.  Barras  drained  his  glass.  "To  the  triumph  of 
France,"  he  said. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Bonaparte  gratefully. 

The  general  refilled  his  guest's  glass.  For  an  awkward 
man  he  did  it  very  adroitly.  Constant,  his  admirable  man, 
assisted  him.  By  dessert  M.  Barras  was  the  least  sus- 
picious person  alive.  His  feelings  towards  his  host  had 
undergone  a  radical  change.  He  admired  him  and  looked 
up  to  him.  He  treated  him  to  his  confidence.  He  spoke 


212  LOVE 

of  his  colleagues  in  office  in  terms  of  small  respect;  he 
described  his  present  position  as  untenable  to  a  man  of 
honor.  The  country  was  going  to  the  dogs,  the  army 
along  with  it.  The  situation  demanded  a  strong  man  to 
cope  with  abuses  second  to  none. 

"Look  at  Tallien,"  he  said.  "He's  a  thief,  sir,  and  a 
desperate  villain.  He'd  like  to  make  me  responsible  for 
the  excesses  at  Quiberon.  Murder,  sheer,  cold-blooded 
murder!  He  never  had  an  order  from  the  government. 
He  acted  on  his  own  responsibility.  Sometimes  I  wish 
Robespierre  was  alive.  He  could  crush.  He  could,  sir! 
God  bless  my  soul !  If  I  saw  Mirabeau  swaggering  into 
the  hall  I'd  embrace  him.  He  fired  the  multitude.  To-day 
there's  nothing  doing.  Where's  the  money  coming  from? 
I  am  pretty  nigh  at  the  end  of  my  patience." 

Bonaparte  peeled  his  pear  carefully. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  continued  Barras,  "I've  never 
backed  out  of  my  opinions.  Leave  that  kind  of  thing  to 
Tallien  and  others  of  his  kidney.  Creatures,  sir,  crea- 
tures not  worthy  the  consideration  of  gentlemen.  What 
I  have  to  put  up  with  passes  human  belief.  Jealousy,  dis- 
putes, lies  from  morning  to  night.  We  are  at  a  dangerous 
corner.  If  nothing  intervenes  we  are  lost — hideously 
lost." 

Bonaparte  looked  up.     Then  he  looked  down. 

"We  must  do  our  duty,"  he  said.  "And  convince  the 
people." 

Barras  tossed  off  his  glass.    "Only  bread  will  do  that." 

The  general's  eyes  were  wonderful  to  behold.  "If  we 
have  not  bread  to  offer  them,  we  must  give  them  imagina- 
tion." 

"Piff!"  said  Barras.  "My  very  good  sir,  you  are  a 
child  or  an  ass." 

The  general  sat  bolt  upright,  immovable.  The  candles 
glowed.  The  golden  begonias  were  on  fire. 

"Lead  the  way,  general." 

"I  will." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  what  did  you  say?" 


LOVE  213 

Nothing  of  importance,  sir." 

"The  army  is  split  into  factions.  There'll  be  thistles 
in  Italy." 

Bonaparte  smiled. 

"No  one  dares  to  move  on  his  own.  Every  damned 
finicky  question  is  put  to  the  national  vote." 

"It  is  a  one  man's  job." 

"In  confidence,  sir,  they  are  all  dead-set  against  you. 
Wish  you  dead  as  mutton — ha !  ha !  It  is  a  queer  world, 
a  deuced  queer  world." 

"I'll   light   the   candles,   sir." 

"Eh?" 

Bonaparte's  voice  was  almost  inaudible.  "Lamplighter 
to  the  gods,  that's  something  ...  or  everything.  Give 
me  the  command,  sir,  and  I'll  bless  you." 

"I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  advice."  Barras  blinked.  His 
right  hand  trembled  slightly.  He  sprawled  back  in  his 
chair.  "Learn  to  speak  French,"  he  said. 

The  other  winced.  The  contempt  and  the  insolence  of 
the  speech  were  intolerable,  except  in  a  man  pleasantly 
drunk. 

"I'll  try,"  he  said.  His  accent  was  more  than  usually 
foreign. 

Barras,  still  leaning  back,  mimicked  him.  "How  old 
are  you,  sir?" 

"Old   enough   to    learn — French." 

"That's  good,  very  good.  I  like  a  sharp  young  man 
who  has  not  a  spice  of  malice  in  his  composition.  Your 
health,  general,  your  very  good  health." 

The  general  returned  the  toast  in  silence,  merely  put- 
ting his  lips  to  his  glass. 

"There's  another  little  subject  worthy  your  attention. 
Women,  God  bless  'em !  I've  always  loved  a  pretty  woman. 
Take  your  lessons  from  a  lady.  I  know  of  one  who'd 
suit  you  admirably.  Who  is  quite  fond  of  you.  Won't 
give  her  away.  Go  and  find  out.  Don't  be  shy.  A  shy 
man  puts  the  women  off  .  .  .  hie — that  would  be  a  great 
pity.  She's  a  darling — the  sweetest " 


214  LOVE 

"I  am  very  much  obliged." 

"Gad,  sir!  You  are  the  luckiest  devil  alive.  Marry, 
sir.  A  clever  man  wants  looking  after." 

"Yet  you  are  at  liberty,  sir." 

"Ha!  ha!  Neatly  put.  Seriously,  Bonaparte,  go  in 
and  win.  I  see  nothing  against  the  match.  True,  she 
has  got  a  couple  of  children.  If  that's  an  objection  she 
might  say  you  have  no  family  to  mention.  By  the  way, 
have  you  got  any  relations?" 

"A  mother,  sir.     Four  brothers,  and  three  sisters." 

"By  Jove !     Any  cousins  ?" 

"Not  to  keep,  sir." 

"It's  impudence,  sir,  downright  impudence,  sir!  Do 
you  expect  me  to  drop  sugar-plums  into  all  their  mouths  ?" 

"I'll  drop  them." 

"Eh?" 

"I'll  drop  them." 

"Young  man,  young  man,  you  are  courting  danger.  I 
am  not  alluding  to  the  lady.  Fact  is,  I  can  personally 
recommend  her " 

"I'll  answer  for  the  danger,"  said  Bonaparte,  sitting 
up.  B arras,  pleasantly  drunk,  did  not  notice  the  evil 
expression  on  his  face.  The  general,  without  being  a 
gossip,  had  heard  rumors  of  M.  Barras'  attentions  towards 
the  woman  he  loved  ...  his  future  wife.  He  felt  mur- 
derously inclined,  looking  at  his  complacent  expression. 
He  clenched  his  hands  behind  his  back.  His  face  was  in 
shadow. 

"Thank  you,  general.  Quite  enjoyed  myself.  In  good 
company  time  flies." 

"I  am  sensibly  grateful  for  the  honor  you  have  paid 
me." 

"I  won't  dispute  the  matter,  dear  fellow.  You  have 
tons  of  discretion.  You  are  not  the  man  to  pull  another 
man  by  the  nose.  Speak  of  human  kindness !  You  would 
not  credit  some  things  I  could  tell  you.  Bribery  and 
corruption " 

"Beat  the  Jews  hollow.     We'll  clear  all  that." 


LOVE  215 

"Jews?  Who  is  speaking  of  Jews?  Christians,  sir, 
good,  honest  Christians  not  worthy  to  eat  out  of  a  pig's 
trough.  Look  at  Ouvrad  waiting  as  a  sly  puss-in-the- 
corner  for  anything  going.  He'll  always  fatten,  mind 
you.  War  or  peace.  Bonaparte  or  Tallien " 

"For  sagacity  you  can't  beat  a  Jew  ...  or  Corsican." 

"Well  said,  general.  Blow  your  own  trumpet.  I'll  come 
to  the  wedding." 

Barras  swayed  like  a  ship  at  sea  as  he  rose,  gripping 
the  back  of  his  chair.  In  a  loud  voice  he  sang  the  last 
verse  of  a  popular  ballad: 

Safe  in  my  arms,  my  bride, 
Up  to  the  clouds  we'll  ride. 
Race  with  the  wind, 
Search  and  find 
All  that  we  want,  my  love, 
Below  and  above. 

"Not  a  cheap  bride.  Believe  me,  you'll  find  the  lady 
expensive.  You  are  wealthy,  general.  Say,  you  are  not 
going  to  fight  me?  Come  now,  I'll  stand  treat  next  time. 
I  admire  you,  Bonaparte.  I  am  proud  to  know  you,  sir. 
You  shall  introduce  me  to  your  mother  and  I'll  tell  her 
my  opinion  of  her  son." 

The  general  joyously  patted  his  guest's  broad  shoulders. 
He  had  to  stretch  up  to  do  so.  "Fight  with  my  bread?" 
he  said  incredulously.  "Fight  with  my  life,  my  very  good 
patron?  'Pon  my  oath  I'm  not  such  a  fool.  When  we 
can't  walk  alone  it's  prudent  to  seek  assistance.  I'm  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  land,  dependent  upon  the  great  and 
noble  M.  Barras." 

M.   Barras   continued  nodding. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  he  said.  "As  we  were  saying " 

He  paused.  He  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  remember 
what  they  were  saying.  He  took  hold  of  the  general's 
arm. 

"I'm  entirely  of  your  opinion,"  he  said.  "It  is  an 
extremely  necessary  measure." 


216  LOVE 

"In  their  own  interests  I  am  disarming  the  civilian 
population  in  Paris.  Any  citizen  who  hides  a  weapon  will 
be  treated  as  a  criminal." 

"Excellent,  my  young  friend  ...  hie !  Show  the  way. 
A  sweet  little  picture.  Reminds  me  of  Laura  Desnouettes, 
who  was  guillotined,  you  remember." 

"This  way,  sir." 

"That's  all  right.  Stop.  'Pon  my  soul,  if  you  dare  to 
lay  a  finger  on  my  arms !  Family  property,  sir.  Family 
tradition " 

"The  members  of  the  government  are  exempt." 

"The  members  of  the  government  are  exempt." 

"And  soldiers." 

"And  soldiers.  There  is  a  pretty  good  story  about 
Menou.  It  seems  the  rascal " 

In  the  sitting-room  M.  Barras  sat  down  in  an  easy- 
chair  facing  the  fire,  in  front  of  which  was  drawn  up  an 
inviting  little  table  containing  coffee,  liqueurs  and  pipes. 
Constant  poured  out  the  coffee  into  charming  little  green 
Sevres  cups. 

The  general  walked  up  to  the  timepiece  standing  on  the 
mantel-shelf.  Unobserved,  he  pushed  on  the  clock  half- 
an-hour. 

M.  Barras  stirred  his  coffee.  "God  bless  my  soul!"  he 
said,  looking  at  the  clock.  "No  idea  it  was  so  late."  He 
pulled  out  his  own  watch  and  compared  the  two.  The}^ 
tallied  exactly.  M.  Barras  was  puzzled. 

The  strong  coffee  drew  some  of  the  cobwebs  from  the 
great  man's  brain.  He  looked  at  the  general  as  a  scientist 
might  regard  a  new  and  unexpected  variety  of  beetle,  that 
is  to  say  with  awakened  interest.  The  general,  no  longer 
fidgety,  sat  as  if  for  his  picture.  (We  wish  we  were 
there  to  take  it.)  Climbing,  a  man  is  a  greater  study 
than  coming  down  the  hill.  Who  of  us  remains  poised  on 
the  top,  for  ever  premeditating  a  flight  up  or  down? 

"At  Toulon,  general,  you  amazed  me.  I  took  you  on 
in  a  spirit  of  obstinacy." 

The  general  never  moved.     Yet  flattery  was  dear  to 


LOVE  217 

him — priceless.  He  was  starved  for  it,  mind  you.  He 
had  eaten  a  good  dinner  but,  as  far  as  that  went,  he  had 
got  up  hungry.  All  the  incense  in  the  world  would  not 
have  satisfied  him.  The  extraordinary  energy  of  that 
man!  It  makes  us  all  look  tame  jacks — carved,  silly 
cocks  made  of  wood,  for  ever  perched  on  the  same  stick — 
colored  or  plain — but  equally  immovable.  It  requires  a 
storm  to  unseat  us  and — if  we  are  painted — gallons  of 
rain  to  wash  away  our  color  (conceit).  The  average 
human  being  and  Napoleon!  They  don't  pair.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  we  can't  see  him  for  the  size  of  him. 
Morally  speaking,  we  have  got  to  take  him  in  patches. 
And  I  tell  you  to  make  them  fit  isn't  child's  play. 

In  plain  inches  a  small  man.  Pale  to-day  and  thin. 
You  seldom  come  out  of  a  garret  plump.  But  he'd  fatten. 
Even  the  average  man  will  fatten  on  good  food,  especially 
if  it  is  to  his  taste  (and  ordering). 

Barras  enlarged  on  the  evils  of  the  day,  particularly 
on  his  position  as  head  of  the  state. 

"I  feel  for  you,"  said  the  general,  concealing  his  envy 
and  his  contempt. 

"I'm  overworked." 

"I've  too  little  to  do." 

"It  comes  to  this,  general.  If  the  government,  in  con- 
sideration of  your  services,  invests  you  with  the  Italian 
command,  you  won't  object?" 

The  general  fixed  a  little  winged  Mercury  Talma  had 
given  him  for  encouragement — in  what  direction  he  hardly 
knew  himself.  The  great  actor  was  one  of  the  general's 
few  friends. 

"I   shan't   object,"  he  answered  coldly. 

After  M.  Barras  had  taken  his  departure — he  was 
going  to  a  dance;  had  an  appointment;  promised  a  fair 
lady — ha!  ha!  (How  his  laugh  jarred  on  the  general's 
nerves!) — Bonaparte  took  up  his  interrupted  work — 
whatever  it  was — and  was  soon  absorbed  in — shall  we  say 
himself,  for  lack  of  a  better  word? 


218  LOVE 

Constant  came  in  softly.  Bonaparte  glared,  speech- 
less. His  right  hand  was  eloquent  of  dismissal. 

Constant  carried  a  small  silver  salver;  upon  it  lay  a 
tiny  twisted  note,  sealed  with  a  mauve  wafer,  scenting  of 
violets.  It  was  addressed  in  a  small  female  hand,  very 
precise,  "To  the  citizen  General  N.  Bonaparte." 

"There  is  no  answer,  sir." 

The  general  with  his  right  hand — raised  in  anger — 
took  the  note  mechanically.  He  sat  and  stared  at  the 
superscription  a  long  while  after  Constant  had  left  the 
room.  He  knew  her  writing  at  once.  For  the  first  time 
that  day  his  head  swam.  Too  great  a  joy  is  akin  to  pain. 
He  had  gone  through  much,  remember — longing,  expec- 
tation, denial.  He  bowed  his  head  on  his  folded  arms  and 
wetted  Josephine's  facile  note  with  his  difficult  tears. 

Extraordinary.  A  man  who  had  cheerfully  trudged— 
a  mere  youth — breakfastless  to  and  fro  some  twelve  Eng- 
lish miles  daily  for  the  purpose  of  getting  a  lesson  in 
geometry — to  break  down  before  a  letter,  which  merely 
contained  an  invitation  to  lunch.  It  is  the  human  touch 
we  like.  Takes  inches  from  his  stature.  Reading  Joseph- 
ine's letter  we  can  see  his  face. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HAVING  left  the  Rising  Sun  occupied  after  his  own 
heart,  installed  in  his  new  apartment,  playing  the 
host  and  what-not,  it  pleases  us  to  shift  the  picture  and 
show  you  a  man  stumbling  in  outer  darkness. 

We'll  wait  upon  Tallien  in  the  privacy  of  his  dressing- 
room  at  his  wife's  residence,  La  Chaumiere,  that  pretty 
little  countrified  house  hiding  itself  in  one  of  the  best 
positions  in  the  Bois.  Terezia  was  beginning  to  tire  of 
it.  She  preferred  the  Luxembourg  district,  she  said.  Her 
friends  smiled.  The  dear  thing  was  so  charmingly  frank. 
And  as  to  her  parties,  t*hey  were  lovely. 

Tallien  was  occupied  in  shaving  his  long  upper  lip, 
very  careful  not  to  cut  himself.  It  would  never  do  to 
appear  at  one  of  Madame  Tallien's  celebrated  evening 
routs  decorated  with  sticking-plaster.  His  big  nose  quiv- 
ered, his  big  mouth  hung  open,  a  feverish-looking,  watery 
mouth,  matching  to  a  nicety  his  bloodshot  eyes.  Between 
ourselves  and  the  glass,  he  was  not  looking  his  best.  For 
months  he  had  been  down  on  his  luck.  The  dagger-trick 
wouldn't  have  amused  an  infant,  much  less  have  impressed 
him.  People  were  whispering — nay,  shrieking  like  par- 
rots. And  Terezia  didn't  like  it. 

Tallien's  big  hand  trembled;  he  laid  down  the  razor, 
and  with  an  oath  summoned  his  man.  You  remember 
Pierre,  that  discreet  and  cat-like  person  who  affected  the 
same  scent  as  his  master  (carnation),  and  would,  as  a 
privilege,  accept  his  priceless  clothes.  Tallien  was  a  fop. 
His  tailors  must  have  made  a  fortune  out  of  him,  not  to 
mention  his  man.  We  don't  know  about  his  tailors,  but 
we  know  his  man  despised  him.  Even  when  he  had  laced-to 
his  silver  brocade  waistcoat,  on  the  memorable  occasion 

219 


220  LOVE 

of  Robespierre's  fall,  and  handed  his  master  the  omnipo- 
tent dagger — tied  with  a  piece  of  pink  ribbon — he  had 
failed  in  respect.  He  had  very  much  doubted  the  issue 
and  was  consequently  surprised  when,  later,  he  had  had 
the  honor  of  assisting  a  hero  into  bed — slightly  groggy 
but  full  of  virtue.  He  had  done  the  trick.  We  fancy,  in 
the  exuberance  of  his  feelings,  that  he  embraced  Pierre, 
who  bore  it  philosophically.  That  was  more  than  a  year 
ago.  At  this  epoch  things  moved  rapidly.  Going  down- 
hill it  is  difficult  to  check  our  descent. 

Vanity  is  a  godsend.  All  the  wickedness  and  awful 
ingratitude  of  mankind  couldn't  rob  Tallien  of  his  ex- 
pectations. Not  that  they  did  not  lie  low  at  times.  In  a 
joyful  frame  of  mind,  we  tell  you,  he  chopped  off  the 
heads  of  all  his  acquaintances — including  Bonaparte — 
and  strung  them  on  a  string — such  a  string!  He'd 
chuckle  over  the  pretty  fancy,  and  tell  his  wife  openly 
that  he  wasn't  a  fool,  not  he.  And  he'd  look  at  her  fur- 
tively like  a  rabbit  out  of  his  hutch  at  the  kitchen-maid's 
approach,  not  sure  if  she  is  going  to  give  him  salad  or 
wring  his  neck.  Terezia  was  a  terrible  uncertainty.  One 
day  she  would  regret  her  insolence.  .  .  . 

Pierre  assisted  him  into  a  very  splendid  coat.  It  was 
of  powder-blue  satin,  elegantly  touched  with  yellow  silk 
embroideries.  The  waistcoat  was  of  shot-gold  tissue,- 
liberally  supplied  with  silver  buttons.  Frills  of  lace  at 
neck  and  wrists — long  cuffs  and  cut-away  tails.  Not  a 
bad  leg — rather  thick  ankles,  but  what  would  you?  Re- 
member his  descent.  Silk  stockings  and  shoes  he  affected, 
or  rather,  low-cut  boots  of  black  satin,  finished  with  a  tie 
across  the  instep,  slipped  into  a  silver  buckle. 

"Fantastic,"  said  Tallien. 

"Fantastic,"  said  Pierre. 

The  same  word,  but  not  the  same  meaning.  Pierre 
was  such  a  polite  servant  that  no  one  observed  his  rude- 
ness. He  had  a  very  observant  eye.  It  was  not  the 
costume  of  a  gentleman  (he  thought)  going  downhill.  He 
had  no  illusions  on  Tallien's  precarious  foothold  in  polite 


LOVE  221 

society.  He  had  had  the  kick  long  ago.  Even  at  La 
Chaumiere  he  was  not  tolerated.  He  hadn't  a  word  to 
say  in  the  establishment. 

Terezia  put  it  as  nicely  as  she  could.  It  was  close  on 
nine  o'clock.  Her  guests  were  always  punctual.  It  was 
such  an  amusing  house,  you  understand.  Liberty  Hall. 
Outrageous  dances.  Queer  music.  Queer  gentlemen; 
queerer  ladies — shrieks  of  mirth  and  lots  to  eat  and  such 
wine !  Tallien's  cellar  was  composed  of  the  pick  of  several 
aristocratic  bins. 

People  used  to  bet  upon  whose  wine  they  were  drink- 
ing. Sometimes  they  would  toast  a  dead  man.  However, 
several  of  the  owners  were  still  alive — over  the  border. 
Some  were  coming  back,  very  quietly  to  their  despoiled 
houses,  as  if  they  were  the  thieves.  There  were  wits  at 
Madame  Tallien's  evening  parties  who  thrived  on  making 
odious  jests.  The  emigres  came  in  for  their  full  share. 
But  above  all  General  Street  was  the  favorite  butt.  His 
person  lent  itself  to  ridicule.  They  said  his  people  made 
a  living  by  selling  fish  in  the  Nice  market.  The  girls 
went  about  barefoot,  boasting  of  their  eldest  brother's 
marriage  to  a  shopkeeper's  daughter.  The  mother — a 
widow — had  had  a  pension  given  her.  General  Bonaparte 
had  bombarded  the  government  until  each  member  had 
subscribed  a  franc.  He  wouldn't  die  for  want  of  asking. 
Some  wits  vowed — with  all  the  warmth  they  were  capable 
of — that  he'd  come  on.  Others,  again,  said  he'd  fail  on 
account  of  his  boots.  "No  sense  of  proportion,"  they 
said.  "No  sense  at  all,"  said  others.  The  last  was  pure 
jealousy.  All  the  same,  Terezia  was  furious  that  she  could 
not  get  him  to  her  parties.  M.  B arras  was  so  obliging. 
He  even  came  to  parties  which  included  nobody  but  their 
two  selves.  He'd  stay  until  morning,  and  never  once 
complain  of  the  dullness.  .  .  . 

"You  have  got  to  go." 

She  snapped-to  her  diamond  bracelet.  Tallien  had 
given  it  her  in  the  prehistoric  days  of  Bordeaux. 


222  LOVE 

He  mouthed  at  her.  He  was  beyond  words.  Poor 
wretch!  If  you  are  dressed  in  your  best  clothes,  and 
the  party  just  coming  on,  how  would  you  like  to  be 
turned  out  into  the  back-yard  like  an  empty  sardine-tin? 
After  all,  he  had  paid  for  everything — Mauser's  band,  the 
candles,  the  flowers,  the  supper,  even  for  Terezia's  won- 
derful mermaid  frock — sea-green  tulle — most  of  it  on  the 
floor — traced  in  silver,  with  peach-pink  linings — mostly 
feathers — foam  touched  by  the  sun.  That  was  what  her 
dressmakers  called  it,  not  for  the  sake  of  poetry  but  to 
smooth  down  the  bill. 

She  looked  superb — as  only  a  perfectly  healthy,  beau- 
tiful woman  can  look,  especially  when  young. 

"Last  Thursday  some  of  the  people  complained." 

"I'm  dressed,  my  dear." 

"Are  you?"  She  looked  him  up  and  down.  "You  like 
airing  clothes.  You  like  a  game  of  cards  at  The  Cow. 
When  you  are  tired  of  that,  Pierre  will  let  you  in  the 
back  way." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  dear!  I've  explained  so  often.  You  can't  show 
your  face  at  a  respectable  house.  When  people  see  you 
they  loathe  you.  When  they  don't,  they  forget  you. 
That's  much  more  comfortable." 

She  moved  across  the  shining  parquet  floor  of  the 
empty  ball-room. 

He  crept  after  her.  He  skipped  past  her  and  faced 

her.  He  bellowed.  "You  d d  bitch,  I'm  master  in  my 

own  house!  I'll  denounce  you!  I'll  unmask  your  lovers 
— high  and  low " 

"Be  quiet,"  she  said. 

He  cowered  before  her.  He  whimpered  out  an  apology. 
She  took  not  the  faintest  notice  of  him,  except  for  a 
contemptuous  glance.  As  an  ornament  he  was  best  out 
of  sight  ...  he  ought  to  live  in  the  country. 

That  was  an  idea.  "To-morrow  you  can  inquire  after 
Rose-Marie.  It  is  nothing  of  a  drive,  with  good  horses." 
Terezia  had  paused  at  the  buffet  and  was  sampling  a 


LOVE  223 

sandwich.  "I  had  meant  to  buy  her  a  rattle  but  I  forgot 
it.  They  tell  me  she  is  quite  a  picture.  Have  one?" 

He  shook  his  head.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes — 
tears  of  acute  self-pity.  The  band  was  playing.  In  the 
courtyard  came  the  sound  of  the  first  arrivals.  Terezia 
smoothed  her  laces.  She  ran  across  the  ball-room,  the 
incarnation  of  youth  and  love. 

"Come,  my  pet,"  she  said.  "You  are  the  King  of  the 
Moment." 

Out  of  a  corner  there  crept  an  uncertain  dwarf — a 
poor,  miserable  human  toy.  Terezia  always  had  some 
little  surprise  for  her  friends.  This  creature  was  quite  a 
find.  How  they'd  laugh!  His  hunch  was  big  enough 
for  the  whole  company  to  hang  their  wit  upon.  "Have 
you  seen  la  belle  Tallien's  latest?"  "Do  look  at  his  eyes. 
I  swear  that  they  are  human!" 

There  was  a  commotion  later  in  the  evening.  M.  Barras 
took  the  freak  in  bad  part.  One  lady — in  an  interesting 
condition — fainted  at  sight  of  him.  M.  Barras  had  him 
permanently  ejected.  Terezia  was  prettily  penitent.  It 
all  passed  off  in  a  moment.  The  dwarf  disappeared.  The 
delicate  lady  went  home,  and  the  delightful  ball  continued 
to  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  to  everyone's  complete 
satisfaction. 

Tallien  hurried  away.  He  had  had  his  orders.  He 
didn't  dare  disobey. 

Outside  the  cool  night  air  fanned  his  heated  face.  He 
had  hidden  the  glories  of  blue  and  gold  satin  under  a 
grey  cloth  coat — a  nondescript  garment  he  used  for 
night-wear.  He  did  not  want  to  be  recognized,  as  he  went 
along.  He  had  an  exaggerated  opinion  of  his  own  im- 
portance. Don't  waste  an  ounce  of  pity  on  him — he  never 
wasted  a  drachm  on  anyone — a  monster  of  a  man. 

The  wind  blew  lustily  down  the  embankment.  He 
wrapped  his  cloak  closer  around  him  and  bent  his  head 
to  the  blast.  To  avoid  meeting  his  wife's  guests — car- 
riage after,  carriage  passed  him  —  nondescript,  humble 


224  LOVE 

vehicles  carrying  the  spice  and  flower  of  degenerate  so- 
ciety to  La  CHaumiere — he  cut  into  the  Rue  Chaux — a 
by-street  leading  into  the  Rue  Brassiere,  within  easy  dis- 
tance of  the  Rue  des  Quatre  Vents — his  destination.  At 
The  Cow  he  was  sure  of  his  welcome.  He  had  his  special 
table,  his  own  set  of  friends,  and  the  landlord's  respect- 
ful attention.  He  paid  his  way  in  hard  cash.  He  was 
a  treat  to  his  friends,  compared  to  them  he  was  in  opulent 
circumstances.  Every  night  they  waited  for  him,  and 
old  Pluto — that  was  the  landlord — as  he  went  round  with 
the  drinks  cocked  his  ears,  until  he  came.  Sometimes  the 
swinging  lamp  in  the  bar  smoked  villainously;  sometimes 
it  burned  brightly,  and  the  coppers  on  the  great  old  chim- 
ney-shelf winked.  Always  there  was  noise,  and  customers 
coming  and  going  under  the  ancient  sign. 

For  centuries  it  had  swung  from  the  same  place,  watch- 
ing generations  of  tipplers  disappear.  In  a  high  wind  it 
creaked;  you  could  hear  it  ever  so  far  away  down  the 
narrow  street,  with  its  tall,  irregular  houses,  a  motley 
company  not  of  a  high  class.  In  the  days  of  the  Terror 
it  had  been  the  boast  of  the  neighborhood  that  no  aristo- 
crat had  ever  housed  there.  In  consequence  it  was  con- 
sidered a  very  pearl  of  a  street. 

The  Cow  was  the  oldest  building  of  all.  A  picturesque 
corner  house,  with  two  ancient  gables  and  much  old  oak. 
The  low  ceilings  were  supported  with  massive,  worm- 
eaten  beams.  Every  floor  sloped  one  way  or  another. 
That  was  the  reason  why  occasionally  a  guest  in  leaving 
the  premises  stumbled  and  fell.  An  old  joke.  Yet  always 
met  by  ribald  laughter.  Sometimes  a  general  fight  fol- 
lowed, and  black  eyes.  From  the  high  table  Tallien  would 
laugh  loudest  of  all.  Here  he  was  at  his  ease — the  prince 
of  good  fellows.  Here  his  money  jingled  and  flowed. 
There  was  a  girl — in  blue  and  red  feathers  and  a  Madonna 
face — who  loved  him.  She'd  sit  at  his  feet — his  big, 
sprawling,  vulgar  feet — and  look  up  at  his  bleared  eyes 
adoringly.  ...  So  much  for  taste  and  the  miracle  of 
women.  We  tell  you,  this  poor  woman  of  the  street  looked 


LOVE  225 

up  to  him  and  loved  him.  Sometimes  he  gave  her  a  pat — 
sometimes  a  kick.  Man-Tallien  treated  Lizette  as  a  dog. 
The  doctor  was  amused. 

While  we  are  about  it,  let  us  introduce  his  set  quickly. 
Later,  we  will  go  into  particulars.  You  will  have  heaps 
of  occasions  to  grow  quite  intimate,  if  you  want  to  know 
them.  At  your  service,  the  doctor,  the  poet,  the  pawn- 
broker, the  musician,  the  landlord — each  an  individual — 
each  with  his  own  interests  close  to  his  heart,  buttoned 
under  his  jacket.  All  balderdash  that  they  gave  Tallien 
the  preference.  They  humbugged  him  on  account  of  his 
wine.  Tallien  paid.  He  had  that  privilege.  Also  the 
high  seat  at  the  dented  table,  of  untold  antiquity.  Pluto 
said  ten  generations  of  wits  had  kicked  their  feet  against 
the  cross-bars  to  form  a  comfortable  hollow  for  the  silk 
boots  of  the  exquisite  citizen  Tallien.  When  he  said  it, 
he  invariably  sniffed.  The  whole  company  sighed.  And 
the  pawnbroker  wagged  his  head.  Souci  fiddled  divinely, 
and  as  often  as  not  the  poet  stretched  out  his  terrifically 
lean  arm,  preparatory  to  starting  a  recitation  of  his  own, 
dropping  it  in  favor  of  the  bottle.  Tallien  saw  that  it 
was  never  empty.  A  full  bottle  breeds  good  feeling,  even 
in  low  company.  The  doctor  might  or  might  not  pare 
his  bluish  finger-nails — we  don't  remember.  The  landlord 
might  have  sat  down  on  his  tray  or  on  his  napkin,  it  is 
all  immaterial  to  the  story.  The  great  point  is  that 
once  safe  at  The  Cow,  Tallien  blossomed  as  a  rose  in 
sunshine.  No  canker  in  his  mind — an  optimist  of  opti- 
mists, a  born  raconteur  and  liar. 

To-night  he  came  in  later  than  usual,  perspiring  like 
a  whale  rising  from  the  deep.  He  had  had  his  moments 
of  acute  physical  distress.  Down  the  Rue  Brassiere  his 
heart  had  thumped  to  suffocation.  He  had  felt  certain 
that  he  was  being  followed  by  assassins  only  waiting  their 
opportunity  to  murder  him-  The  darkness  was  impene- 
trable. The  wretched  oil  lamps,  swinging  from  dwarf  posts, 
or  over  the  portal  of  occasional  family  mansions,  served 
but  to  intensify  the  gloom.  He  kept  close  to  the  wall, 


226  LOVE 

now  running,  now  walking  slowly  as  an  old  man,  his  stick 
tapping  the  uneven  cobbles  .  .  .  "he  was  innocent  .  .  . 
innocent  .  .  ."  he  kept  on  mumbling  the  same  words  as 
some  melancholy  dirge,  without  the  support  of  faith.  He 
had  no  faith  in  himself.  When  we  despair  of  our  own 
actions  we  cease  to  exist. 

At  the  street  corner  the  wind  tore  open  his  coat.  He 
glanced  down  horrified  at  his  grand  clothes.  In  God's 
name — why  hadn't  he  changed!  He  was  a  blinking  il- 
lumination. If  he  met  anyone  he  was  lost.  With  feverish 
haste  he  buttoned  the  cloak  all  awry.  His  stick  clattered 
to  the  ground.  At  a  distance  some  one  shouted.  .  .  . 
The  cry  was  taken  up  and  repeated.  ...  A  woman 
screamed.  The  devil — it  was  some  one  else  they  were 
after !  He  laughed  aloud  as  at  some  excellent  joke.  Fancy 
now,  how  remarkably  stupid  he  had  been!  He  wouldn't 
tell  anyone,  not  he. 

Jauntily,  swinging  his  cane,  he  entered  the  tavern. 

In  his  little  box,  painted  green  and  white,  Maitre  Souci 
was  playing  the  fifth  number  on  the  programme. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"DEFORE  we  advance  an  inch  further  down  the  hill,  we 
will  stop  and  point  out  to  you  a  most  rare  and 
wonderful  gentleman.  Personally  we  love  him.  That's 
another  matter.  We  know  him,  and  you  don't.  To  look 
at — well,  there  he  is,  large  as  life,  framed  in  his  ridiculous 
musical-box,  painted  a  premature  dazzle  effect  of  broad 
green  and  white  stripes.  Originally  it  had  been  built  for 
a  sentry-box  on  the  Flemish  coast.  Heaven  knows  how 
it  had  drifted  into  Pluto's,  the  landlord's  possession,  and 
what  put  it  into  his  head  to  put  it  to  its  present  use.  It 
looked  so  starkly  incongruous.  It  didn't  stand  level  on 
the  sloping  floor.  It  would  have  formed  poor,  if  any, 
protection  against  the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven.  By 
order  of  the  band — who  could  be  very  severe  at  times — 
the  sides  had  been  knocked  clean  out,  for  greater  freedom 
of  movement.  There  Souci  stood — seven  nights  a  week — 
for  hours,  facing  the  seat  of  honor,  and  playing  for  the 
love  of  music  and  two  sous  a  night.  That  was  his  salary 
— two  sous  a  night,  plus  board  and  lodging.  Pluto  as- 
sured anyone  who  asked  him  that  he  had  had  Souci's  ser- 
vices  a  matter  of  twenty  years.  And  that  naturally  he 
would  not  relinquish  such  a  lucrative  post.  The  musician 
was  a  sober  fellow  who  seldom  stirred  from  the  house.  He 
was  grateful  for  the  least  attention.  We  have  seen  his 
eyes  light  up  with  pleasure  at  the  gift  of  a  sweetmeat, 
handed  to  him  by  some  poor  drab  of  a  female,  and  as  to  a 
tear,  a  human  tear,  called  forth  by  his  heavenly  melodies, 
it  filled  his  heart  with  naive  wonder  and  thankfulness. 
He  had  the  biggest  heart  in  Paris — a  great  big  honest 
heart,  with  no  room  in  it  for  sneers  or  suspicions,  unkind- 
ness  or  evil  company.  He  made  the  best  of  everything. 
He'd  never  willingly  fling  a  stone  at  anyone.  As  far  as 

227 


228  LOVE 

his  income  allowed  him,  he  was  the  soul  of  generosity. 
He  was  of  medium  height,  stoutly  built,  with  nondescript 
features.  His  shabby  grey  coat  was  always  carefully 
brushed  and  his  linen  clean.  His  hands  were  the  hands 
of  a  gentleman.  His  soul  was  the  soul  of  an  artist.  What 
more  do  you  want?  Must  we  repeat  that  on  his  beloved 
violin  his  execution  was  nothing  less  than  marvellous  ?  He 
played  by  ear — and  often  as  not  his  own  compositions. 
He  never  scored  a  note.  That  was  his  insanity.  (We 
are  all  mad  on  some  point  or  other.)  The  doctor  had 
often  told  him  there  was  lost  money  in  it.  "And  fame," 
said  the  poet.  "The  world  pays  for  genius,"  said  the 
pawnbroker,  shaking  his  head  terribly.  It  was  grotesque 
to  see  Sans  Souci's  blank  stare  of  annoyance.  You  might 
as  soon  ask  a  baby  to  give  up  its  rattle  for  nothing  and 
not  expect  tears.  In  time  his  friends  left  off  wounding 
his  feelings.  The  landlord  never  did.  Sometimes  Souci, 
dozing  on  his  hard  cane  chair  in  his  ridiculous  musical- 
box,  would  be  ruthlessly  roused  from  his  dreams  by  the 
landlord's  harsh  voice  ringing  in  his  ears.  "Hem!  you 
lazy,  good-for-nothing  rascal,  do  I  pay  you  a  fortune 
to  sleep  like  a  king  on  his  throne?"  .  .  .  He'd  come  back 
— with  a  start — from  his  own  country — particular  to 
every  artist — where  the  winds  of  heaven  play  freely  in 
great  desolate  places;  where  the  stars  shine  in  peculiar 
radiance,  and  where  the  sun  is  never  tired  of  doing  good — 
even  waiving  her  place  to  the  clouds  for  the  benefit  of  the 
least  of  her  little  flowers.  Rain  or  sun — day  or  night — 
Souci  never  returned  empty-handed.  He'd  get  up  and 
bow  to  the  company  and  continue  his  performance.  The 
dice  would  rattle  as  before — the  drinks  go  round — the 
ancient  worm-eaten  rafters  disappear  under  the  smoky 
atmosphere;  the  hazy  lamp,  blear-eyed  like  a  man  partly 
blind;  Man-Tallien  would  continue  his  lie — the  doctor 
attending  to  his  blue  thumb-nails — he  had  prodigiously 
large,  opaque  nails  and  red  hair — the  poet,  huddled  on 
his  chair,  looking  the  picture  of  misery;  he  wanted  to 
talk  .  .  .  the  pawnbroker  on  account  of  his  infirmity — he 


LOVE  229 

suffered  from  palsy — for  ever  shaking  his  head.  How 
tired  it  must  have  got !  I  wonder,  when  he  went  to  bed, 
if  he  didn't  tie  it  up  against  the  bed-post?  In  this  com- 
plicated atmosphere — each  man's  interest,  as  it  were,  foul- 
ing his  neighbor'^ — Souci's  clear  notes,  for  all  their  skill, 
were  simplicity  itself.  A  natural  talent  is  always  easy  of 
achievement.  That's  the  beauty  of  it.  ... 

"Dear  friends,"  said  Tallien,  "trust  me  and  love  me." 

He  held  his  sixth  bumper  aloft.  A  moving  spectacle 
of  great  condescension  in  blue  and  gold. 

The  poet  struggled  to  his  feet  and  declared  on  the 
security  of  his  life  that  he  had  waited  long  enough  to  get 
his  reward.  It  would  be,  he  said,  apple  tart,  mutton 
stew,  and  milk  punch. 

Pluto  had  not  served  Tallien  for  a  matter  of  ten  years — 
on  and  off — without  benefiting  by  his  experience.  He 
knew  his  bowl  to  a  pip.  Now  he  placed  it  on  the  table, 
reeking.  Seven  glasses  or  mugs ;  one  ladle,  silver,  with 
an  ebony  handle.  The  doctor  immediately  pocketed  his 
knife  and  crossed  his  legs. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  to  the  gaunt  poet.  But  the  gaunt 
poet  stood.  It  was  like  him.  The  most  obstinate  fellow 
in  Paris.  He  could  write  verse. 

Lizette  sat  at  the  feet  of  her  idol — a  tinpot  fake  if 
ever  there  were  one.  Blessed,  blessed  are  the  pure  in 
heart — her  sin-stained  life  aside.  At  the  very  bottom  of 
the  hill,  when  beggar-Tallien,  stricken  with  disease,  pur- 
blind, hideous,  earned  a  pittance  by  selling1  matches  and 
bootlaces  on  the  Pont  Neuf  (history),  she  found  him  out. 
She  took  him  home  and  she  nursed  him  tenderly.  Louis 
XVIII,  hearing  of  his  destitution,  "in  recognition  of  his 
public  services"  (there  is  no  irony  so  great  as  the  irony 
of  history),  gave  him  a  small  pension. 

We  are  hurrying  on.  Tallien  is  in  great  form  to-night. 
Lizette,  young  and  handsome.  The  palsied  pawnbroker 
— who  eventually  refused  his,  Tallien's,  last  shirt  as  past 
business — regards  him  with  kindly  flattery.  In  fact,  they 
all  do. 


230  LOVE 

It  is  hardly  worth  emphasizing  how  snug  and  pleasant 
a  place  the  crowded,  stuffy  bar  struck  Tallien.  A  coward 
is  always  a  coward,  whatever  his  complexion — spiritual  or 
physical.  Surely  there  is  no  greater  haven  for  him  than 
the  tried  and  trusted  companionship  of  friends?  The 
soothing  influence  of  the  bottle?  Tallien  drank  in  the 
bracing  atmosphere  in  great  life-inspiring  draughts. 
Once  or  twice,  to  her  delight,  Tallien's  damp  hand  swept 
the  painted  cheek  of  the  girl  at  his  feet.  Which  benign 
action  proved  his  good-humor.  As  a  rule  he  was  too 
great  a  man  to  notice  her  existence  .  .  .  they  all  loved 
him ;  they  all  hung  on  his  words ;  here  he  was  a  prophet, 
a  seer,  a  giant  who  had  done  great  deeds,  and  who  was 
capable  of  greater  .  .  .  the  black  cat  in  the  corner  kept 
her  round  green  eyes  fixed  on  the  company — she  was 
quite  a  character  of  the  place;  fed  on  cream  when  Souci 
had  only  water.  No — his  board  was  not  ruinous.  And 
as  to  his  lodging,  when  we  have  time  we'll  show  it  to  you. 
Under  the  steep  staircase  was  a  kind  of  wood-box,  fur- 
nished with  a  skylight  giving  on  the  street  above.  In  a 
certain  position  you  had  a  splendid  view  of  the  foot- 
passengers'  shoe-leather,  always  supposing  they  skirted 
the  house.  There  was  also  a  bed — of  sorts;  a  chair — of 
sorts ;  a  table — but  we  are  afraid  if  we  tell  you  everything 
you  won't  take  any  interest  in  it  later  on.  And  that  is 
fatal  to  a  story.  Story?  I  assure  you,  we  never  dabble 
in  lies.  All  we  tell  you  is  truth.  The  Cow's  a  fact.  So 
are  the  people  inside  it.  And  Souci's  inspired  music. 

We  know  nothing  of  what  came  before.  Where  he 
was  born,  educated,  and  so  on.  The  features  and  social 
station  of  his  parents.  If  he  was  an  only  child  or  one 
of  ten.  Even  so,  with  the  rest  of  the  party;  their  very 
names  have  escaped  us.  It  is  a  great  relief,  because 
names  always  trouble  us.  Henceforth  let  them  be  known 
by  their  professions.  The  landlord  was  a  widower  of 
some  years'  standing.  The  poet,  the  doctor,  the  musician, 
the  pawnbroker  had  never  committed  the  crime  of  mat- 
rimony. Tallien,  we  know,  was  probably  married  to  the 


LOVE  231 

most  beautiful  woman  in  France,  and  certainly  the  most 
faithless.  Though  he  cursed  her  frequently,  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  he  felt  proud  of  her  fame.  That  shows  you 
the  worm  he  was. 

The  poet  at  length  obliged  the  doctor  by  sitting  down. 
He  was  busy  sucking  lozenges  to  deaden  his  racking 
cough.  Once  started  it  was  almost  impossible  to  stop 
him,  which  irritated  everyone  except  Souci.  His  face  was 
very  pink  and  his  blue  eyes  very  blue.  You  could  count 
the  raised  veins  on  his  painfully  emaciated  hands.  Oc- 
casionally his  hands  would  leap  out  and  dance  a  fantastic 
measure  over  the  dented  table.  As  the  night  wore  on,  the 
palsied  pawnbroker  trembled  exceedingly.  Though  very 
tired  he  never  gave  in  to  sleep.  The  youngish  doctor — 
who  really  had  some  semblance  to  gentility,  and  who  was 
far  more  careful  of  his  person  than  his  companions — 
always  with  the  exception  of  the  elegant  gentleman  in 
blue  and  yellow — under  the  influence  of  wine  grew  very 
careful  of  his  speech.  In  lieu  of  words  he  either  raised  or 
lowered  his  bushy  eyebrows — he  was  quite  an  adept  in 
the  business.  What  his  eyebrows  didn't  express  is  not 
worth  mentioning. 

Pluto,  having  in  an  admirable  manner  seen  to  the  com- 
fort of  his  guests,  obligingly  accepted  a  seat  at  the  high 
table,  at  the  right  hand  of  Tallien  himself.  He  sat  bolt 
upright  on  the  very  edge  of  his  chair,  looking  the  very 
picture  of  proud  discomfort. 

"Ah,"  said  the  landlord  sententiously,  "there  is  no 
quality  so  beautiful  as  humility." 

"It  becomes  an  eagle  and  it  does  not  disgrace  a  spar- 
row," said  the  poet  dreamily.  "Hack-hack!" 

His  wretched  cough  was  so  loud  that  it  practically 
drowned  the  pawnbroker's  no  doubt  estimable  rejoinder. 
.  .  .  "Arrogance,  sir"  (we  catch  him  up  half-way),  "is 
the  root  of  all  evil  and  hardness  of  heart." 

"My  noble  friends,"  said  Tallien,  greatly  moved,  "your 
confidence  inspires  me  to  victory.  Lead  on,  angel  of 
Faith!  My  achievements  are  small " 


232  LOVE 

The  doctor  raised  his  left  eyebrow. 

The  poet  banged  his  fist  on  the  table.  The  crockery 
jumped.  "Citizen,"  he  said,  "you  have  earned  the  grat- 
itude of  France.  Long  live  the  patriot — Tallien!" 

The  toast  was  honored  unanimously. 

Tallien  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Citizens,"    he    said,    "we    have    got    to    face    radical 
changes.     The  times  are  ripe  for  action.     The  best  man 
wins." 
"Ah!" 
"Ah!" 
"Ah!" 

His  supporters  looked  at  each  other.  They  nudged 
each  other.  They  whispered  to  each  other,  "Isn't  he 
wonderful?" 

For  half  an  hour  he  spoke  to  no  purpose  at  all,  if  it 
wasn't  to  tear  General  Bonaparte's  character  to  shreds. 
It  was  not  the  general  who  had  laid  low  the  rebels  (it 
seemed)  or  spirited  the  guns  to  Paris.  A  mere  cloak — 
a  mere  buffoon — a  mere  nobody! 

The  doctor  lowered  his  right  eyebrow. 

In  the  heat  of  his  argument  the  great  man  took  no 
notice  of  this  trumpery  opposition.  All  the  venom  of 
his  nature  oozed  out  at  the  name  of  Bonaparte.  He  was 
a  real  menace  to  the  glorious  constitution,  he  said.  He 
must  be  removed. 

"Powder  or  knife?"  said  the  doctor  briskly.  "If  you 
call  me  in  I'll  want  a  consultation." 

"He-he!"  laughed  the  pawnbroker,  who  was  rather  im- 
becile. "I  remember  that  young  man  coming  into  my 
shop  not  so  long  ago.  As  off-hand  a  customer  as  ever 
I  had.  I  treated  him  generously." 

His  trembling  hand  searched  his  pockets.  "Look,  citi- 
zens; I  gave  him  five  francs  for  this.  It  is  not  worth 
two." 

Tallien  took  the  little  silver  cross,  set  with  turquoises, 
in  his  big  hand  and  looked  at  it  contemptuously.  "I'll 
give  you  ten,"  he  said. 


LOVE  233 

"No,  no,  friend.  It's  not  for  sale.  I  keep  it  for  senti- 
ment." 

"As  you  please,*'  said  Tallien,  tossing  the  pawnbroker 
his  property.  "When  did  you  buy  it?" 

"On  the  eleventh  of  August,  '92." 

"That  is  interesting,"  said  the  poet.  "As  far  back  as 
that  our  little  general  was  making  a  bid  for  fortune." 

"Through  the  doors  of  a  pawn-shop,"  cackled  the  land- 
lord. 

"A  solid  business,"  said  the  owner,  "built  on  necessity." 

Tallien  yawned,  and  whispered  in  the  gratified  ear  of 
the  innkeeper — he  grew  a  tuft  of  greyish  hair  in  each — 
"Heard  me  mention  Joseph?  At  present  employed  as 
his  private  secretary  by  Barras?  A  nominal  position,  of 
course.  They  say  .  .  ." 

Pluto's  face  shone.  He  nodded  his  head  and  screwed 
his  lips,  but  he  thought  better  of  a  whistle.  Instead,  he 
blurted  out:  "We  have  come  out  of  the  fray  stronger 
than  ever.  I'm  not  boasting,  but  I  am  a  faithful  friend." 
(He  slapped  his  chest.)  "Forgive  me,  citizen,  I  don't 
see  you  as  the  grand  gentleman  of  to-day — though  you 
prove  the  value  of  rank — but  as  the  Friend  of  the  People, 
the  zealous  editor  of  a  brilliant  publication.  Sometimes 
I  read  over  the  old  numbers  with  tears  in  my  eyes."  He 
laid  his  hand  on  a  portion  of  blue  and  yellow  satin.  "If 
ever  man  knew  his  business,  you  did.  If  ever  man  loved 
his  business,  you  did.  My  poor  old  wife  used  to  attend 
the  executions " 

"Dear  friends,"  said  Tallien,  "you  exaggerate  my 
merits.  I  am  only  a  humble  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
retribution.  If  the  time  comes  again  when  I  am  wanted, 
you  know  where  to  find  me." 

The  poet  leaned  over  the  table. 

"Are  your  hands  clean?"  he  asked  breathlessly.  "Let 
me  look." 

"Funny  man,"  said  Tallien. 

"Where  are  the  dice?"   said  the  doctor. 


234  LOVE 

"The  aristocrats  are  a  race  apart,"  continued  the  poet, 
mournfully  obstinate.  "Race  and  tradition " 

"Stop!" 

"Who  said  stop?     I'll  flatten  his  nose  with  pleasure." 

"Don't  take  any  offence,  sir,"  said  the  landlord. 

"I  won't,"  said  TaUien,  folding  Pluto  to  his  heart. 
They  wept  in  company.  "We  must  drink  on  this,"  he 
continued,  "and  forget  .  .  .  forget  discussions  and  broils 
for  the  peace  to  come.  In  the  name  of  justice,  brothers, 
I  raise  my  glass." 

In  his  box  the  fat  man,  as  far  as  space  allowed,  was 
twisting  and  turning  like  a  frenzied  top,  playing  for  all 
he  was  worth.  One  illuminating  smile.  No  doubt  he 
was  assisting  at  the  fun  of  the  fair  in  his  native  village, 
the  boys  and  girls  and  the  children  footing  it  merrily 
on  the  green.  He  played  and  he  played,  and  he  jigged 
and  he  jigged ;  every  boy  did  his  best;  every  girl  her  utter- 
most. And  some  of  the  babies  tumbled  on  the  green. 
The  sun  was  scorching  hot  and  the  dry  earth  smelt  of 
honeysuckles. 

"I  love  you,"  said  Tallien,  kissing  Lizette.  (  She  looked 
up,  wondering;  she  was  not  at  a  commonplace  fair  but 
in  heaven.) 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  said  the  poet,  shivering,  "I  wrote 
a  grand  book.  I  spoilt  it  all  by  words.  They'd  sweep 
in  like  the  tide  on  the  Atlantic  coast.  They'd  pile  up 
in  great  deadly  heaps.  My  poor  book — my  poor,  poor 
book!" 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  doctor.  "He's  off  danger- 
ous ground,  anyhow." 

The  swing-door  of  the  tavern  opened  mightily  to  admit 
two  officials.  For  once  in  his  life  Souci  "took  notice." 
He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  lovely  cadence.  Blank 
silence  greeted  the  newcomers. 

Citizen  Jean  Lambert  Tallien  rose  to  his  feet,  steady- 
ing his  right  hand  on  the  table.  The  women  scuttled 
to  right  and  left.  Every  man  in  the  place  left  his  glass 
and  gaped.  The  landlord  came  forward,  wiping  his  hands 


LOVE  235 

on  his  cloth.  The  pawnbroker  tried  to  get  up,  but  every 
time  a  fiend  pushed  him  back.  The  doctor  and  the  poet 
exchanged  glances. 

"Complications,"  whispered  the  doctor. 

The  stranger  in  the  green  coat — reading  from  a  paper 
by  the  light  of  a  lantern  held  by  his  companion — gave 
all  and  sundry  notice  that  by  order  of  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  of  the  Home  Forces,  General  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, every  citizen,  under  pain  of  six  months'  imprison- 
ment, was  to  deliver  up  any  arms  and  weapons  in  his 
possession  within  the  next  three  days,  at  the  different 
arsenals  hereby  notified. 

The  proclamation  being  read,  the  men  marched  out. 

Tallien  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  must  say  that  for  him,"  he  said,  "Bonaparte  always 
carries  out  his  instructions  at  once.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  disarming  of  the  civil  population  was  my  idea. 
It  is  useful  to  both  sides." 

The  doctor's  right  eyebrow  shot  up  to  the  level  of  his 
hair. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"HP HANK  you,  Clementine.     Whom  did  you  see?" 

Clementine,  in  her  striped  dress  and  pretty  white 
apron,  smiled  at  her  mistress. 

"No  one  I  knew.  A  footman  who  took  your  note, 
ma'am,  as  if  it  had  been  filled  with  explosive  matter." 

"Perhaps  it  was,"  said  Josephine  demurely. 

"  'Give  it  to  the  general,'  I  said,  'at  once.'  'When  it  is 
convenient  to  me,  young  woman,'  he  answered.  I  wouldn't 
stay  in  the  same  house  with  him,  not  an  hour." 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  was  playing  a  desultory  game 
of  patience.  There  is  nothing  more  trying  to  our  nerves 
when  we  are  thinking  of  something  else. 

"It  is  close  on  nine  o'clock,  madam." 

Josephine  shifted  a  card.  She  was  seated  in  the  bow 
window  at  a  round,  old-fashioned  mahogany  table.  "I'm 
not  going  out  to-night." 

"Oh,  ma'am!  And  your  dress  and  your  shoes  and 
your  fan  all  laid  out!" 

"Put  them  back  again,  Clementine.  And  if  you  are 
going  to  worry  me,  walk  out  of  the  room." 

Clementine  sighed  and  fingered  her  apron. 

"I  can't  bear  her,  that's  the  truth.  This  will  be  a 
slap  in  her  face,  nasty  mischievous  cat !  I  am  sick  of 
hearing  of  her  beauty  and  her  clothes.  Those  kind  of 
people  never  last." 

"No,  ma'am." 

Josephine  banged  a  card  on  its  face.  "The  worst  set 
in  Paris." 

"And  the  most  fashionable,"  said  Clementine  stoutly. 
With  the  aid  of  her  fingers — the  cleverest  and  the  nimblest 
pair  in  town — she  checked  off  a  dozen  names  to  corroborate 
her  statement:  ladies  who  considered  it  a  privilege  to  be 

236 


LOVE  237 

seen  in  Madame  Tallien's  society,  in  spite  of  her  and  her 
husband's  antecedents.  Certainly  they  gave  the  cold 
shoulder  to  Tallien,  but  all  the  more  consideration  to  his 
much-discussed  wife. 

"Madame  Fanny  de  Beauharnais,  Madame  Lebrun, 
Madame  de  Stael " 

"Clementine,  I'll  get  up  and  slap  your  face,  if  you  keep 
on  irritating  me!  I'm  not  prudish  myself " 

Clementine  curtsied.  "Dear,  dear  madam,"  she  said, 
"forgive  me.  And  when  are  the  children  coming  home?" 

"To-morrow,"  said  Josephine.  "Tell  cook  to  let  us 
have  chocolate  eclairs  for  lunch.  Eugene  loves  them. 
Remember  we  send  word  round  to  Louise  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning.  The  last  time  Hortense  was  at  home  her 
dresses  were  up  to  her  knees.  We  must  do  something  to 
them.  I  can't  afford  new  ones."  She  sighed  and  looked 
pensively  at  the  fire.  "It  is  so  difficult  to  be  poor." 

"And  all  the  gentlemen  willing  to  marry  you." 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  laughed.  "You  will  never  guess 
who  I  have  decided  on  ...  a  mother  must  sacrifice  her- 
self in  the  interest  of  her  children.  I  am  going  to  do  my 
duty,  Clementine.  Not  going  to  La  Chaumiere  to-night 
proves  it." 

"If  Madame  Tallien  cans,  will  you  receive  her?" 

Josephine  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "Of  course.  That  is 
quite  another  matter;  she  is  so  amusing.  After  all,  I  am 
not  responsible  for  her  moral  conduct." 

Josephine,  a  couple  of  days  or  so  after  the  successful 
dance  at  La  Chaumiere,  was  looking  at  her  only  son  with 
her  pretty  eyes  clouded  over. 

Madame  Tallien's  ball  had  ended  in  a  spirited  manner 
by  the  hostess  being  carried  in  procession  around  the 
reception-rooms — preceded  and  followed  by  a  chorus  of 
young  people,  singing,  more  or  less  out  of  tune,  a  hymn 
to  Love  and  Beauty.  Barras  had  held  the  divinity's  hands 
pressed  to  his  heart — the  little  friction  between  them — 
caused  by  the  ugly  dwarf — completely  wiped  out.  Cham- 


238  LOVE 

pagne  and  love  do  wonders,  and  the  rest  can  be  safely 
left  to  beauty.  Never  had  Madame  Tallien  appeared  more 
to  her  advantage.  She  practically  had  the  whole  room 
at  her  feet.  The  sea-green  frock,  resting  on  pink  feathers, 
was  a  triumph  of  liberal  display.  The  heat  intensified 
the  whiteness  of  her  skin ;  the  adulation  offered  her  person 
gave  an  added  lustre  to  her  eyes.  "Thank  you,"  she  mur- 
mured, ready  in  her  gratitude  to  kiss  anyone  who  came 
first.  We  fancy  the  banker,  M.  Ouvrad,  seized  his  chance, 
to  the  general  merriment  of  the  company  and  the  partic- 
ular scowl  of  the  great  M.  Barras.  Madame  Tallien  didn't 
mind.  She  had  them  both  under  her  thumb.  .  .  . 

Young  Eugene  had  been  giving  his  mother  a  lecture. 
She  was  such  a  poor  hand  at  explanation. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say,  I'm  going  to  keep  it." 

"The  general  has  forbidden  it,  darling.  You  don't  want 
to  go  to  prison,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  mind." 

"And  break  my  heart?" 

"Mother!" 

"Be  reasonable,  Eugene.  Later  on,  I'll  buy  you  a  new 
one " 

"It  won't  be  father's  sword,"  answered  the  boy  sadly, 
clasping  the  weapon  tenderly  to  his  heart. 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  had  only  partly  finished  her 
morning  toilet.  Her  hair  was  dressed  for  the  day,  but 
she  still  wore  a  peignoir  of  muslin  and  lace,  fresh  as  a 
daisy.  Her  dressing-room  was  a  study  in  green  and  white. 
Her  dressing-table  loaded  with  crystal  and  silver.  For 
a  poor  woman  she  made  a  tolerable  display.  Wealth 
couldn't  have  done  much  better.  Then — as  we  all  know 
— poverty  has  its  relative  degrees. 

Eugene  de  Beauharnais,  who  was  either  twelve  or  thir- 
teen at  this  time — a  spirited,  handsome  boy — was  devoted 
to  his  father's  memory. 

"I  hate  him,"  he  said  slowly. 

Which  ebullition  of  temper  was  more  than  the  gentle 
widow  could  stand.  She  actually  shook  her  son  by  his 


LOVE  239 

shoulder.  "Imbecile!"  she  cried.  "If  you  don't  believe 
me,  go  and  ask  him  yourself.  General  Bonaparte  receives 
between  twelve  and  three.  He  may  make  an  exception  in 
your  favor " 

The  boy's  eyes  sparkled. 

"On  account  of  your  mother." 

"Why?" 

"He  takes  an  interest  in  her." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Then  I'll  go  at  once.  Lucky  you  know  the  brute.  I'll 
be  even  with  him.  I'll  tell  him  you  sent  me." 

"Do." 

"Darling!"  Eugene  sprang  into  her  extended  arms 
and  embraced  her  warmly. 

He  took  the  old  sword  with  him,  carrying  it  through 
the  streets  of  Paris  with  considerable  pride.  His  thoughts 
were  full  of  the  future,  and  how  he  would  protect  his 
mother  from  tyrants,  dragons  and  so  forth.  "Fancy  her 
knowing  Bonaparte !"  he  repeated  to  himself,  half  in  con- 
tempt and  half  in  envy.  He  wouldn't  have  been  human 
if  he  had  not  had  a  lively  curiosity  to  see  him  himself. 
At  school  General  Bonaparte  was  the  chief  topic  of  con- 
versation. He  was  awfully  brave,  and  hard  as  flints.  They 
said  his  eyes  hypnotized  you.  He  could — single-handed 
— keep  a  crowd  at  bay.  These  wonders  came  into  his  mind 
as  he  approached  the  general's  residence.  The  great  sword 
made  his  arm  ache.  His  hand  trembled  as  he  touched 
the  bell. 

Hardly  had  Eugene  left  his  mother's  house  in  the  Rue 
Chantereine  before  Madame  Tallien's  chariot  stopped  the 
way.  That  lady,  on  ascertaining  from  her  footman  that 
Madame  de  Beauharnais  received,  slowly  ascended  the 
stairs  to  her  dressing-room.  She  had  come  on  a  visit  of 
reconciliation. 

She  found  the  widow  frosty,  trying  on  a  new  pair  of 
ear-rings.  M.  Barras  had  sent  them  around  that  morning 
in  a  box  of  chocolates  .  .  .  rather  pretty  of  him. 


240  LOVE 

"Good  morning." 

"You  are  not  cross,  darling?  What  charming  ear- 
rings !" 

"Old  as  the  hills,"  murmured  the  widow  coldly,  dropping 
the  ornaments  carelessly  into  a  pin-tray. 

"Are  you  going  out?" 

"No." 

"May  I  sit  a  little  while?" 

"Do." 

Terezia,  in  a  soft  tricot  dress  of  champagne-colored 
silk,  toned  up  by  a  remarkable  hat  of  cerise  velvet  and 
feathers,  sank  gracefully  in  the  little  couch  by  the  window. 
She  played  with  her  sable  muff.  It  was  early  in  the  year 
for  furs,  but  they  suited  her.  She  held  the  muff  up  to 
her  face — her  eyes  sparkled  over  the  edge — her  golden 
hair  was  dressed  low  over  her  ears.  Not  a  single  jewel  on 
her  person.  Maybe  it  was  a  concession  to  the  morning, 
or  to  the  hat?  Some  hats  won't  stand  jewelry.  In 
conjunction  with  them  even  a  rope  of  pearls  looks  vulgar. 

"I  want  to  be   friends,   Josephine." 

"Very  kind  of  you,  I  am  sure." 

"I  missed  you  terribly  on  Wednesday.  We  had  such 
fun.  And,  oh,  my  dear,  their  appetites !" 

"That's  what  they  came  for,  I  suppose? — to  eat." 

La  Chaumiere's  hospitality  was  famous  in  these  dog- 
days  of  famine,  when  a  bone  cost  a  fortune.  Prices  had 
not  gone  down — on  the  contrary,  harassed  housewives 
assured  each  other  they  had  gone  up.  And  yet  extrava- 
gance was  the  ruling  passion.  People  said  it  was  a  natural 
result,  following  the  Revolution  and  all  the  restrictions 
and  miseries  they  had  undergone. 

"Don't  be  odious.  There  is  not  another  woman  in 
Paris  that  I'd  get  out  of  my  bed  for.  I  knew  I'd  catch 
you  if  I  came  early." 

As  we  all  know,  Josephine  had  the  kindest  heart  in  the 
world.  Also  she  was  burning  to  hear  all  about  the  party 
and  what  people  were  saying  about  the  little  general. 

"You  are  too  frivolous,  Terezia." 


LOVE  241 

"I  can  be  as  serious  as  Bonaparte  if  I  want  to." 

"You  never  do." 

"Fiddlesticks!  Tallien  is  sufficient  worry  to  give  any 
woman  grey  hair.  How  I  envy  you  your  liberty!  A 
young  widow — with  plenty  of  admirers — has  a  most  envi- 
able position.  Darling  Josephine,  kiss  me." 

Terezia  rose  from  her  seat,  dropped  her  muff  on  the 
floor,  and  held  out  her  matchless  arms. 

"I  can't  help  liking  you,"  said  Josephine,  after  the 
ladies  had  warmly  embraced.  "Only  I  wish  you  were 
more  careful." 

"I  will,  I  will,"  said  Madame  Tallien  glibly,  leading 
Josephine  back  to  the  charming  sofa,  a  comfortable  size 
for  two. 

Confidence  restored,  I  tell  you  the  minutes  flew.  The 
mid-day  sun  peeped  in  (rather  shyly — it  was  a  blowy, 
cold  day)  before  either  Josephine  or  Terezia  was  aware 
of  the  flight  of  time. 

"I've  a  thousand  things  to  do,"  said  Madame  Tallien. 

"You  will  stay  to  lunch?     I  don't  eat  before  one." 

"Thanks,  darling.     I'm  afraid  of  your  general." 

Josephine  laughed.  "He  is  so  inoffensive,  really.  Be- 
sides, he  does  not  live  here." 

"I  believe  you  intend  to  marry  him.  Isn't  it  thrilling! 
I  rather  love  a  new  man." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Josephine,  slightly  nettled. 
She  didn't  like  her  young  man  disparaged. 

"I  don't  know.  I  am  sure  he  is  an  admirable  creature, 
once  you  get  over  his  awkwardness.  What  do  you  talk 
about?" 

"Lots  of  things." 

"I  always  find  him  stiff  as  a  poker." 

"He  doesn't  get  on  with  everybody." 

"That's  rather  a  mercy.  Plus  que  reme  ...  do  you 
remember  that  silly  old  prophecy?  You  told  it  us.  Who 
knows,  there  may  be  some  truth  in  it ;  and  that  Bonaparte 
will  end  up  by  being  rich  and  famous.  You  wretch,  if 


242  LOVE 

you  dare  to  jump  over  my  head  I'll  never  forgive  you, 
never  1" 

"Is  it  likely?"  said  Madame  Beauharnais  truthfully. 
"Still,  all  the  same,  I  am  sure  he'll  get  on.  He  is  devoted 
to  his  profession." 

"You  mean  fighting?" 

"He  simply  adores  it.  He  was  speaking  of  beating  the 
English  the  other  evening,  and  he  forgot  all  his  shyness 
— he  shouted,  and  he  snapped  his  fingers.  I  thought  he 
had  gone  clean  off  his  head.  His  eyes  glowed,  and  he 
spoke  with  as  much  assurance  as  if  he  had  had  the  biggest 
army  in  the  world  at  his  disposition." 

"Poor  dear  creature,  how  disappointed  he  will  be!" 

"That's  just  it " 

"We'll  come  back  to  him.  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my 
party.  Madame  Fanny  was  great — like  a  picture  in  her 
hooped  petticoats.  She  danced  a  minuet  with  old  Leroux. 
You  almost  saw  the  dead  king  and  poor  Marie  Antoinette 
looking  on." 

"Not  at  La  Chaumiere,  darling." 

"Too  sweet  for  words.  My  dwarf  would  have  loved  it. 
He  has  such  a  poetical  soul." 

Josephine  shivered.     "I  hate  abnormalities." 

"Yet  you  love — Napoleon !"  Terezia  >lew  a  kiss  on 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  no  one  in  particular. 

"I  don't  love  him." 

"No  matter;  he  loves  you  a  la  foUe.  Life  is  a  glori- 
ous adventure,  it  really  is.  I  am  going  to  get  rid  of 
Tallien  and  marry  again." 

"Who  is  the  lucky  man?" 

"Paul  Barras." 

"He  is   far  too  prudent " 

"Until  he  loses  his  head.  I  will  only  give  it  him  back 
as  a  wedding  present.  No,  I'm  only  joking.  Public 
servants  can't  afford  scandals.  They  deal  largely  in 
blinds.  That's  really  rather  witty,  darling.  Pass  it  on 
to  the  general,  with  my  love.  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I 
dislike  him.  For  some  reason  or  other  he  is  rude  to  me. 


LOVE  243 

You'll  have  to  rub  up  his  manners,  Josephine,  or  shut 
him  up  for  ever  in  a  camp." 

Josephine  was  just  considering  a  suitable  retort,  when 
Eugene  ran  into  the  room,  carrying  the  big  sword,  brim- 
ming over  with  excitement. 

"Oh,  mother!"  he  exclaimed.  "He  was  as  nice  as  he 
could  be.  'Keep  it,'  he  said,  'and  do  it  credit.'  When 
I'm  older,  he  is  going  to  take  me  on  as  his  aide-de-camp. 
When  I  mentioned  your  name,  he  bowed  his  head  over 
his  hands  and " 

Terezia  rose  languidly.  "I  congratulate  you,  sir,  on 
your  victory,"  she  said. 

"Poor  dear  Alexandre!"  said  the  widow.  "I  ought  to 
go  and  thank  him." 

"Won't   it  be  a  little  difficult?" 

Terezia's  sarcasm  was  lost  on  Madame  de  Beauharnais. 
"I  am  so  delighted,  Eugene.  Wasn't  it  a  good  idea?" 

"Splendid." 

The  shy  sunlight  suddenly  flooded  the  room. 

"It  is  going  to  be  fine,  after  all,"  said  Terezia.  "Good- 
bye, dearost.  Do  the  children  know?"  she  whispered. 

Josephine  shook  her  head.  "H'sh!  No.  Not  a  word. 
Well,  if  you  want  to  go  I  can't  keep  you." 

"I'd  love  to  stay,  you  know  it.  I'm  a  coward,  darling, 
and  I  daren't  offend  her.  Lamertine's  new  rooms  are 
dreams — wicked  dreams.  You  have  promised  me  Mon- 
day faithfully?" 

"Faithfully." 

"I'll  write  and  tell  M.  Charles " 

"Please  don't  be  so  ridiculous!"  (Josephine  blushed 
and  smiled.)  "What  a  charming  hat  you  have  got  on!" 

Down  the  stairs  ran  Madame  Tallien,  laughing.  .  .  . 
"Poor  dear  Josephine,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "what 
a  fool  she  is!  I'd  rather  take  Charles  of  the  two,  any 
day." 

She  stepped  into  her  carriage. 

The  footman  waited  for  his  orders. 

"To  the  Luxembourg,"  said  Madame  Tallien. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

\X7HEN  in  doubt  a  woman  as  a  rule  decides  to  please 
'  herself.  We  don't  say  Terezia — a  past-mistress  in 
the  art — hadn't  left  a  few  stings  in  the  gentle  widow's 
heart.  It  was  worse  almost  than  if  she  had  made  open 
fun  of  the  "new"  man,  her  veiled  amusement  at  the  gen- 
eral's obvious  faults;  not  so  much  of  character  as  of 
person.  The  average  woman,  of  two  evils,  prefers  her 
young  man  to  drink  than  to  tie  his  tie  badly.  There  was 
no  getting  away  from  it  that  General  Bonaparte  pre- 
sented a  slovenly  appearance.  His  hair  was  seldom 
brushed ;  his  boots  never  polished — Josephine  had  suffered 
agonies  on  account  of  those  boots— clumsy,  hideous  things ! 
he  rarely  paid  her  a  compliment — in  fact,  he  didn't  under- 
stand the  usages  of  polite  society.  The  only  thing  in  his 
favor  was  that  he  loved  her.  And  that  he  undoubtedly 
— for  her  sake  or  for  his  own — intended  to  gratify  his 
ambitions.  What  were  they?  No  one  could  with  cer- 
tainty put  their  finger  on  the  spot.  Vaguely  Josephine 
realized  that  they  were  immense.  Never  had  a  new  man  ar- 
rived at  a  more  opportune  moment.  Have  you  not  noticed 
it,  sometimes?  God  clears  the  stage  for  a  favored  human 
being — an  immense  place,  bare  and  naked,  and  he  fills  it 
with  life  and  color  and  wonder — a  marvel  to  behold.  The 
multitudes  follow  behind,  shouting.  It  does  not  happen 
often.  Otherwise  achievement  would  be  tame  as  a  rabbit. 
Naturally,  Josephine  thought  of  nothing  so  fantastic. 
At  most  she  dwelt  on  the  thought  of  improved  social  con- 
ditions and  a  replenished  wardrobe,  in  conjunction  with 
her  diffident  lover.  .  .  .  Josephine,  pulling  on  her  long 
cream  suede  gloves,  smiled  happily.  "It  is  rather  excit- 
ing," she  assured  herself.  "I  do  hope  the  Austrians  won't 
go  home  before  he  has  time  to  get  down  and  beat  them. 

244 


LOVE  245 

So  nice  for  Bonaparte  that  they  are  behaving  badly." 
A  frown  succeeded  the  smile  at  the  expense  of  the  lax 
government.  "Noodles!"  said  Josephine  as  she  got  into 
her  waiting  cab — such  a  horrid  old  cab,  with  all  the  straw 
coming  through  the  cushions — at  nine  hundred  francs  the 
hour.  The  widow's  charming  gold  bag  was  stuffed  with 
the  currency  of  the  day — those  dubious  assignats  prac- 
tically valueless  in  the  money  market.  In  London  they 
were  not  even  quoted.  Only  a  speculator  might  have 
given  you  a  half-penny  a  thousand.  A  ruinous  rate  of 
exchange  for  the  unhappy  possessor  of  French  moneys. 

The  waning  October  light  was  faintly  coloring  General 
Bonaparte's  modest  apartment,  when  a  closely  veiled  lady 
was  shown  into  the  office  adjoining  the  general's  private 
rooms.  With  a  bow  the  secretary  in  attendance  requested 
to  know  the  lady's  pleasure.  In  a  timid,  soft  voice  she 
asked  to  have  the  privilege  of  an  interview  with  the  general. 
She  could  wait,  she  said.  The  private  secretary — a  young 
man  of  very  observant  eye  —  begged  the  mysterious 
stranger  to  be  seated.  He  would  directly  ascertain  if 
she  could  be  received.  He  glanced  round  the  somewhat 
bare  and  austere  room  before  earnestly  fixing  the  face 
of  a  large  gilt  bracket  clock,  facing  the  curtainless  win- 
dows. Look  as  he  would  he  couldn't  alter  the  hour.  It 
was  exactly  ten  minutes  past  four. 

"I'm  afraid,  madam,  you  are  rather  late." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  the  lady. 

"Have  you  an  appointment?" 

"No."  " 

"Your  name,  madam?" 

''Madame  Josephine  de  Beauharnais." 

"Your  errand,  madam?" 

"I  wish  to  thank  the  general  for  his  kindness  to  my 
son."  (Here  her  voice  trembled.)  "He  has  been  allowed 
to  keep  his  father's  sword." 

The  secretary  bowed. 

"Exactly,  madam,"  he  said,  with  as  much  detachment 
as  if  he  had  been  an  automatic  figure,  clicking  out  so 


246  LOVE 

many  words  a  minute.  "Pray  be  seated,  madam."  (His 
maker  had  paid  particular  attention  to  his  manners.) 

Madame  Josephine  accepted  a  chair  by  the  window,  one 
of  a  dozen  of  the  same  precise,  uncomfortable  pattern. 

She  was  in  brown  from  head  to  foot — a  soft,  warm  nut- 
brown — made  with  the  simplicity  of  a  nun's  robe — in  dull- 
faced  satin;  her  circular  cloak  was  in  velvet  to  match — 
her  little  hat  was  enveloped  in  flowing  ninon  veils  of  the 
same  shade,  through  which  the  polite  secretary  glimpsed 
a  sweetly  red  mouth  and  a  pair  of  beautiful  eyes,  reflecting 
to  a  nicety  the  general  tone  of  brown  in  her  costume. 
Even  her  reddish  hair — more  brown  than  red — was  in 
the  picture.  Surely  the  market  bunch  of  violets  at  her 
waist  was  a  stroke  of  genius?  The  violets,  together  with 
the  delicate  perfume  she  affected,  emitted  a  delicious  scent. 
The  curve  of  her  bare  throat  and  slightly  drooping  chin 
affected  the  secretary  to  deeds  of  unparalleled  bravery. 
He  walked  boldly  across  the  uncarpeted  floor  and  knocked 
determinedly  on  the  general's  private  door.  He  was 
admitted.  The  widow  never  looked  up.  The  last  parting 
rays  of  the  sun  illuminated  her  slight  figure. 

Almost  at  once  the  secretary  briskly  returned,  as  any 
fool  could  see,  the  bearer  of  good  tidings. 

"Madam " 

She  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"Sir?" 

"The  general  will  be  most  happy  to  see  you  in  about 
— h'm — five  minutes.  Some  slight  derangement  of  his 
toilet " 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Josephine.  "I  don't  want  to  give 
him  any  trouble.  I'll  call  again  another  day." 

"Madam,  I  entreat  you  to   remain." 

"Certainly." 

"If  you  go,  the  general  will  be  seriously  annoyed  with 
— h'm — both  of  us." 

"That  would  be  a  pity." 

A  little  smile  hovered  in  her  eyes  and  went  to  sleep 
on  her  lips. 


LOVE  247 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "the  general  is  rather  inclined 
to  be  obstinate.  Not  that  I  know  him  very  well,  but  it 
strikes  me  he  might  be  obstinate." 

"Exactly,  madam." 

"He  is  rather  a  remarkable  man." 

"Very  remarkable." 

Josephine  sighed  and  pulled  off  her  long  soft  gloves — 
not  nearly  so  white  and  soft  as  her  arms.  She  put  up 
her  jewelled  hand  under  her  veil  and  adjusted  a  curl. 

"Am  I  looking  tidy,  sir?" 

"Lovely.     I  mean,  madam,  perfect." 

"Thank  you,   sir." 

You  ought  to  have  heard  the  dignity  of  her  voice  and 
seen  the  distracted  gaze  of  that  reckless  young  man.  In 
his  office  a  clerk  is  not  a  man  but  a  machine.  So  he 
tiptoed  back  to  his  tall  desk  and  took  up  his  quill  pen 
and  turned  over  the  leaves  of  an  immense  folio  without 
seeing  a  single  page.  .  .  .  Madame  Josephine  sat  on 
her  chair  by  the  window.  The  sun  had  retired  and  left 
her  face  in  shadow. 

The  secretary,  as  we  remarked  at  once,  was  a  very 
observant  young  man.  Never  had  oil  on  troubled  waters 
proved  more  magical  than  the  name  of  Citoyenne  Veuve 
Beauharnais  for  allaying  the  gathering  storm  in  General 
Bonaparte's  steely  glance.  He  hated  interruption.  Ob- 
serving his  secretary  standing  before  him,  he  had  glared 
quite  viciously.  He  was  writing  at  feverish  speed  at  his 
untidy  table,  laden  with  papers,  books  and  maps.  At 
her  name  the  general  had  leapt  to  his  feet.  "Keep  her!" 

he  had  shouted.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  Tell  her " 

And  he  was  gone  like  a  whirlwind  into  his  dressing- 
room  beyond.  Clearly,  clearly  that  observant  young  sec- 
retary would  get  on  in  the  world.  Where  do  secretaries 
end? 

Josephine  sat  immovable,  admirably  concealing  her 
impatience  at  the  delay;  her  little  silk-stockinged  feet,  in 
their  brown  leather  shoes,  meekly  crossed  over  each  other. 
The  secretary  longed  to  offer  her  a  footstool.  But  thwe 


248  LOVE 

wasn't  one.  Waiting-rooms  seldom,  if  ever,  run  to  foot- 
stools. They  are  really  lamentably  short  in  their  ap- 
pointments. 

"It  has  been  quite  a  warm  day,"  she  remarked. 

The  secretary  peeped  over  his  big  ledger — in  fact  he 
had  been  peeping  all  the  time.  "It  has  madam,"  he  agreed 
respectfully. 

The  minutes  lagged  and  dragged.  She  was  really 
annoyed  with  her  little  general.  Was  he  going  to  surprise 
her  in  the  vanities  of  a  court  costume? — satin  knee-breeches 
and  buckled  shoes?  So  unnesessary.  He'd  be  sure  to 
spoil  it  with  some  glaring  lack  of  detail.  She  laughed. 

The  secretary  stared  over  his  ledger.  Truth  to  tell, 
she  was  feeling  miserably  nervous.  Why  had  she  ever 
come?  And  that  wretched  old  cab  at  nine  hundred  francs 
an  hour!  In  a  fit  of  temper  she  tossed  her  gold  bag  on 
the  seat  opposite. 

"I   arn  obliged "   she  began. 

The  double  doors  communicating  with  the  private  apart- 
ments opened  as  they  open  on  the  stage,  that  is  to  say,  to 
their  widest  capacity.  On  the  centre  of  the  threshold 
stood  the  general  (in  his  old  green  coat  and  field  boots), 
upright  and  pale.  His  eloquent  eyes  were  apparently 
fixed  on  the  opposite  wall.  He  had  thrust  his  right  hand 
into  the  breast  of  his  coat. 

The  room  behind  him  was  illuminated.  There  were 
burning  candles  in  sconces  on  the  wall;  in  tall  sticks  on 
the  writing-table;  in  bronze  candelabra  on  the  marble- 
topped  console  tables  between  the  windows.  The  green 
rep  curtains  were  drawn. 

"Madam,"  said  the  general  coldly,  "be  so  good  as  to 
enter." 

Josephine  rose  and  came  down  the  little  strip  of  red- 
and-white  linen  matting  running  down  the  length  of  the 
room  from  door  to  door. 

The  general  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass.  Then  he 
shut  the  doors.  The  secretary  vanished  like  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  He  shut-to  the  big  folio  volume  and  hurried  off 


LOVE  249 

to  The  Blue  Dragon,  where  he  dined,  anticipating  his 
master's  wishes.  Being  an  observant  young  man  he 
realized  that  he  had  completed  his  work  for  the  day  half- 
an-hour  earlier  than  usual. 

She  very  faintly  realized  that  she  had  set  a  match  to 
an  all-devouring  flame.  This  was  her  first  visit,  remem- 
ber. He  had  made  no  attempt  to  meet  her  half-way.  It 
was  her  place  to  come  to  him.  As  she  crossed  the  room, 
his  lips  had  parted  in  a  triumphant,  dazzling  smile.  Yet 
when  she  touched  his  hand  it  was  only  the  limp,  trembling 
hand  of  an  eager  lover. 

She  lifted  her  veil. 

"Citizen  general,"  she  said  formally,  her  voice  failing  her 
a  trifle,  "I  have  come  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to 
my  little  boy.  He  is  so  happy." 

Perhaps  it  was  Josephine's  stereotyped  curtsey  which 
broke  the  first  spell.  (He  had  lived  a  hundred  years  while 
watching  her  move  across  the  room.) 

" Josephine !"  he  said.  "Josephine,  my  beloved!"  And 
he  covered  her  hands  with  his  kisses. 

She  stood  with  her  face  averted.  She  observed  on  the 
general's  writing-table  a  little  cream  china  bowl  filled  with 
violets.  Each  breath  from  her  parted  lips  attacked  him 
and  left  him  physically  weak.  He  was  capable  of  murder 
to  reach  her  lips.  Somehow,  her  coquetry  failed  her.  His 
stormy  mad  elation  affected  her  heart  a  little.  Her  bosom 
rose  and  fell.  She  blushed  like  a  young  girl.  His  desire 
was  overwhelming  ...  on  the  whole  she  was  pleased. 

"Haven't  you  made  yourself  grand!  Quite  a  pretty 
room.  And  all  those  candles " 

She  swayed  across  to  the  writing  table  and  touched 
the  bowl  of  violets. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "of  your  plenty  you  sent  me  only  one. 
That  was  not  very  generous." 

"I  have  but  one  soul,  one  life,  one  heart.  And  for  me 
there  is  only  one  woman  in  the  world." 

His  voice  thrilled  her.  He  stood  there — a  little  way 
off — not  daring  to  approach  her. 


250  LOVE 

"Citizen,  come  nearer."  She  laid  a  cool  hand  on  his 
arm.  "I  wish  I  understood  love  better,"  she  confessed. 

"If  you  did  you'd  kill  me." 

"That  would  be  a  pity."  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"As  if  love  could  kill!" 

She  met  his  glance.  "You  darling — you  darling,"  his 
eyes  told  her  as  much,  "I  worship  you.  I  adore  you.  .  .  ." 

"Whose  picture  is  that?" 

"Yours." 

"Who  drew  it?" 

«"I  did." 

"It's  not  a  bit  like  me." 

"No." 

She  had  unclasped  her  cloak  and  it  fell  to  the  ground. 
Against  the  long  wall  between  two  mahogany  bookcases 
was  a  deep,  old-fashioned  sofa,  covered  in  green  rep  cloth. 

"You  have  never  asked  me  to  sit  down,"  she  said,  looking 
back  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  She  moved  away.  He  fol- 
lowed her,  stumbling  over  her  dress.  She  had  not  time 
to  exclaim  at  his  awkwardness.  She  was  more  conscious 
of  her  dragging  veil  than  his  kisses.  He  didn't  spare  her. 
As  she  sank  back  on  the  sofa  his  burning  lips  clung  to 
her  face,  her  neck,  her  hands.  "Please,  please!"  she  said, 
warding  him  off.  .  .  .  "Don't  be  so  impetuous.  I'm 
not  going,  not  just  yet  awhile.  .  .  .  Have  you  missed 
me  so  very  much?"  Really  and  truly  he  was  quite  a 
hurricane.  .  .  .  her  frivolous  heart  beat  as  gently  as 
the  heart  of  a  lark  soaring  upwards.  Napoleon's  wings 
were  strong  enough  to  carry  them  both  ever  so  high. 
.  .  .  Here  was  romance  and  glory;  conquest  and  devo- 
tion. So  her  little  hands  ceased  their  play.  Her  mouth 
rested  on  his.  He  forced  her  head  gently  back  on  the 
pillow  behind  her  —  a  hard,  uncompromising  black  satin 
cushion,  stuffed  with  goodness  knows  what.  She  closed 
her  eyes. 

"I  idolize  you." 

Her  lashes  fluttered.  She  held  tightly  to  both  his 
hands. 


LOVE  251 

"Marry  me  to-morrow.  Now.  .  .  .  What  am  I  saying? 
I  can't  see  anything.  I'm  blind  .  .  .  happy  as  I  never 
hoped  to  be  happy.  Darling,  darling — look  at  me.  You 
white  witch  of  the  world,  I  adore  you.  I'll  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  please  you.  You  do  like  me?" 

He  was  standing  over  her,  one  knee  on  the  couch, 
menacing  in  his  youth  and  power. 

She  looked  at  him.  She  stroked  his  right  hand.  "Napo- 
leon," she  said,  "I'm  proud  of  you." 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  slipped  down  and  knelt 
at  her  feet  and  buried  his  face  in  her  lap. 

"Sir,  you  weep  at  that?" 

The  soft  incredulity  of  her  voice  stung  him.  He  shiv- 
ered. "Madam,  you  flatter  me,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "There 
are  moments  when  I  doubt  my  whole  existence.  I  may 
never  merit  your  splendid  faith.  I  may  bring  you  to 
shame." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Josephine,  just  a  shade  crossly.  She 
disliked  what  she  was  pleased  to  call  "heroics."  Not  an 
atom  of  meaning  in  it.  Bonaparte  —  without  being  fla- 
grantly conceited  —  was  well  aware  of  his  own  merits. 
Everyone  is.  If  you  lose  heart  you  lose  the  battle.  She 
wanted  him  to  win. 

She  took  oft7  her  hat,  laid  it  on  a  chair  close  by,  fluttered 
her  fingers  through  her  hair,  and  talked  as  reasonably  as  a 
grandmother  on  his  future  conduct  in  the  world.  Joseph- 
ine's homily  was  deliciously  feminine.  She  had  his  whole 
attention.  His  eyes  were  riveted  on  her  face.  She  liked 
sitting  in  the  great  sofa — curled  far  back — with  Bonaparte 
at  her  feet,  madly  in  love.  It  was  flattering  to  her  years. 
He  couldn't  have  loved  her  more  if  she  had  been  seven- 
teen and  had  never  met  Alexandre  de  Beauharnais  .  .  . 
and  others.  Did  the  dear  boy  imagine  he  was  first?  She 
felt  almost  sorry  for  him.  Her  tender  eyes  looked  inscru- 
table and  dark  as  the  violets  growing  in  their  native  soil. 
For  quite  a  long  while  he  had  not  said  a  word.  He  seemed 
content  to  sit  there  and  look  up  at  her;  to  finger  her 


252  LOVE 

dress,  to  dream  his  dreams,  which  he   (foolishly)    took 
for  her  own. 

The  candle-light  flickered  on  the  oak-panelled  walls, 
with  a  complimentary  grace  all  their  own.  .  .  .  There 
was  nothing  very  complicated  about  Bonaparte  (she 
thought).  His  was  an  elementary  nature.  He  was  a 
child  of  the  South,  passionate  and  headstrong.  His  tem- 
per was  not  quite  reliable  ...  he  had  a  sweet  mouth. 
Really,  in  a  certain  light,  he  was  quite  good-looking. 

Josephine  had  a  soul,  of  course.  We  don't  hold  with 
the  Prophet — but  oh,  how  small,  how  compressed  out  of 
sight  by  a  host  of  greater  interests — the  vexed  problems 
of  dress,  flirtation,  prettiness  which  form  to  some  women 
their  whole  existence! 

I  tell  you,  the  general's  present  attitude,  worshipful 
in  the  extreme,  not  only  vexed  but  worried  Josephine. 
She  was  not  a  very  well-read  woman.  Poetry  had  no 
distinction  in  her  eyes.  Life  was  full  of  hard  values. 
Fancies  were  to  her  as  immaterial  as  mist.  Presently 
he  grew  human  again. 

"Darling,  say  you  love  me!" 

She  said  it. 

He  reached  up  his  hand  and  pulled  her  face  down  to 
his  and  twisted  a  stray  curl,  flattering  her  oval  cheek, 
round  his  lean  sensitive  finger.  The  action  and  the  atti- 
tude were  both  painful  to  Josephine.  It  speaks  volumes 
for  her  restraint  that  she  bore  it  patiently. 

"You  belong  to  me." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  faintly. 

"Kiss  me,  Josephine.  Put  your  arms  round  my  neck. 
One  moment,  only  one  moment." 

"I  love  you,"  she  piped. 

The  burning  intensity  of  his  voice  and  the  miserable 
insincerity  of  hers!  Fancy  being  idolized  by  Napoleon 
• — the  young  Napoleon — with  all  his  glory  yet  to  come — 
isn't  the  bud  sweeter  than  the  rose? — with  every  feat  and 
every  dream  caressed  and  made  perfect  by  love  of  her — 
and  getting  in  return  such  poor,  painted  lip-service !  She 


LOVE  253 

would  have  been  just  as  pleased  (or  more)  to  have  been 
kissed  by  M.  Charles.  It  makes  us  contemptuous  of  the 
whole  sex.  Charles  was  a  little  conceited  coxcomb  and  a 
coward  at  that,  as  you'll  hear  later  on.  Napoleon — the 
greatest  genius  that  ever  lived.  He  imi^st  have  penetrated 
her  thin  disguise.  Her  love?  Snow  and  sunshine — snow 
and  rain — snow  and  summer.  In  a  trice  it  is  melted  and 
the  green  trees  know  it  no  more ;  a  memory  and  a  delusion 
to  their  thirsty  lips.  If  we  could  choose  our  own  time 
in  life,  what  a  lot  we'd  gain!  No,  we  wouldn't.  We'd 
never  move  on.  It  is  derogatory  to  be  kicked  out  of  a 
good  place.  Competition  is  seldom  polite. 

He  noticed  nothing  wrong.  In  his  strong  arms  her  soft 
body — stayless  and  tranquil — set  his  pulses  on  fire.  From 
time  immemorial  her  type  had  triumphed  over  men.  Your 
hard,  cold,  clever  women  seldom  feed  their  senses,  and 
never  their  imagination.  In  a  flood  of  joy  he  realized 
her  significance.  She,  and  she  alone,  held  the  secret  of 
success.  He  could  confidently  trust  her  in  all  things.  She 
was  the  source  and  inspiration  of  all  his  desires.  She 
was  his  life. 

It  seems  such  impertinence  to  peep  behind  those  closed 
doors.  We  seem  to  hear  the  whistle  of  Napoleon's  con- 
tempt. He  takes  the  fine  thread  of  our  narrative  in  his 
ghostly  fingers  and  snaps  it  off  .  .  .  her  violets  fall  to 
the  ground,  a  little  heap  of  dust.  They  vanish  as  if 
they  had  never  been.  Weary,  weary  is  an  empty  room 
when  you  are  longing  for  your  lover.  In  a  way  we  love 
them  both.  We  are  dependent  on  them.  It  requires 
courage  to  crowd  even  two  or  three  lives,  a  few  spectators, 
properties,  natural  defects,  and  advantages,  into  the 
meagre  covers  of  a  book  or  two.  From  the  cradle  upwards 
we  are  faced  by  limitation.  Deep  down  in  his  heart 
Napoleon  knew  it.  Even  when  he  kissed  Josephine  he 
knew  she  (or  the  gods)  were  hiding  something  from  him. 
He  hadn't  his  full  value.  The  years  beyond  are  as  the 
flowers  of  the  sea — invisible  to  mortal  eyes. 


254  LOVE 

In  juxtaposition  to  him  she  is  simplicity  itself.  She 
never  questioned  the  deep.  She  was  content  to  sail  on 
calm  waters  and  have  (if  you  will  accept  our  metaphor) 
the  water-lilies  brought  to  her.  In  a  luxurious  boat,  if 
you  please,  in  perpetual  fine  weather.  Not  a  bad  pros- 
pect. The  elements  of  uncertainty  in  it?  That  she  would 
never  consider.  The  Josephines  of  this  world  are  all  alike. 
They  blossom  every  year.  If  every  tenth  century,  or  so, 
brings  forth  a  Napoleon,  let's  say  our  prayers.  Hate 
him  or  love  him — none  can  deny  his  exclusiveness,  we  were 
going  to  say  uniqueness,  but  that  does  not  fit  in  in  the 
thousand-year  scheme.  .  .  .  So,  he'll  come  again  in 
power  and  glory  and  dominion ;  a  firebrand  on  earth ;  and, 
alas,  a  monument  of  human  delusion.  We  can't  picture 
the  end  without  tears  in  our  eyes.  Hers  was  the  happier 
lot — far,  far.  No  rose  is  without  a  thorn,  but  we  rather 
fancy  hers  didn't  pierce  very  deep.  To  the  end  she  had 
her  compensations.  If  you  remember,  she  died  in  a  pink 
silk  robe,  enchantingly  made  and  trimmed  with  yards  and 
yards  of  rare  Honiton.  .  .  . 

We  can  hear  you  exclaim,  much  as  the  irate  playgoer  at 
Othello,  "Wipe  your  pen  on  your  sleeve  and  get  on  with 
the  story." 

Can't  you  see  our  cunning?  We  don't  want  to  tear 
holes  in  Napoleon's  most  notable  love-story.  It  is  vile 
presumption  on  our  part.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  to 
prevent  you  imagining  what  you  like,  except  the  limit  of 
your  imagination.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  leave  it  to 
you. 

It  is  not  playing  the  game.  We  know  you  rely  on 
our  indiscretion.  You  expect  a  love-scene,  penned  accord- 
ing to  the  time-honored  rules  of  noveldom.  You  want  to 
be  thrilled  by  Bonaparte's  voice.  You  want  to  see  him 
exactly  as  he  appeared  when  he  kissed  his  beautiful  Joseph- 
ine for  the  first  time.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  the  first  time  and  she  was  not  so  very 
beautiful.  Love  is  the  most  becoming  mirror  in  the  world. 
What  true  lover  finds  a  flaw  in  his  mistress's  face?  What 


LOVE  255 

faithful  admirer  finds  faults  in  his  author's  composition? 
If  any,  they  but  embellish  the  whole.  It  is  a  delightful 
look-out  for  everyone  concerned.  It  may  encourage  care- 
lessness. She  may  forget  to  powder  her  face  and  he  to 
polish  his  phrases. 

Try  as  we  will  we'll  never  improve  the  picture.  Napo- 
leon, on  that  misty  autumn  evening  more  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  is  a  great  representative  of  Youth,  and  his 
darling  Josephine  a  triumphant  embodiment  of  eternal 
woman. 

No  doubt  she  enjoyed  her  easy  victory.  It  never  kept 
her  awake.  When  at  last  Clementine  did  pay  off  the  old 
cab — giving  Cabby  a  few  breezy  names  as  extras  for  his 
extortionate  charges — Josephine  went  up  to  her  room 
excited  over  the  prospects  of  the  night's  entertainment. 
A  delightful  assembly  in  the  Arcades,  open  to  all.  There 
were  to  be  colored  lanterns,  bonfires,  sugar  comfits  and 
men  in  quantities.  .  .  . 

I  don't  say  Napoleon  was  not  equally  astonishing.  Two 
minutes  after  Madame  de  Beauharnais'  departure  he  gave 
his  undivided  attention  to  a  very  dry  piece  of  work — 
something  to  do  with  municipal  by-laws,  we  fancy.  An 
enviable  gift,  not  to  be  underrated.  Fancy,  we  little 
people,  if  we  were  able  at  a  moment's  notice  to  pack 
aside  our  emotions  (until  wanted)  and  start  a  fresh  sub- 
ject, cool  as  the  morning.  This  peculiar  talent  was  worth 
a  deal  to  General  Bonaparte,  was  valuable  to  the  Emperor 
of  France  and  of  solace  to  England's  Prisoner.  .  .  . 

"I  love  you,  Josephine.  .  .  .  How  clever  you  are  .  .  . 
how  sweet  .  .  ." 

We  catch  the  tinkling  echo  of  his  poor  little  love- 
phrases,  swinging  over  a  century  of  time  and  more.  They 
fill  us  with  awe.  They  were  so  entirely  ordinary.  You 
and  I  have  listened  to  them,  let  us  hope  with  more  atten- 
tion than  Josephine  did  (who  was  going  to  a  rowdy  affair 
in  the  Arcades).  Yesterday,  to-day  and  to-morrow 
belong  to  life.  And  life  has  no  age.  Like  the  waves 
of  the  sea  are  the  centuries  of  time.  Our  great  lover 


256  LOVE 

died  nearly — no,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  You 
cease  to  live,  once  your  career  is  over.  Ask  the  half-pay 
officer — the  superannuated  schoolmaster — the  old  clergy- 
man, who  resigned  at  ninety-nine  and  a  half.  .  .  . 

Poor  Napoleon!  Historians  have  fattened  on  you. 
Novelists  have  taken  to  you  greedily.  Expert  print- 
sellers  have  made  a  living  out  of  your  counterfeit  fea- 
tures, at  all  prices.  Dramatists  find  you  useful.  Poets 
— when  at  a  loss — accept  you.  (If  there  was  a  dash  of 
spirit  in  his  ghost,  surely  he  would  long  ago  have  jumped 
at  us  and  shaken  us  for  our  impudence?  Stay.  Or  does 
he  like  it?  Does  he  attend  First  Nights?  Does  he  read 
Napoleonic  literature — wade  through  "romances"  of  his 
love-affairs  and  statistics  of  his  wars,  all  equally  unreal?) 

He  looked  round  the  room  with  a  sharp,  inquiring 
glance. 

"Are  we  alone?"   she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Do  go  and  find  out.  That  secretary  of  yours  may 
be  listening  to  every  word  we  say." 

He  verified  his  statement.  The  ante-room  was  a  cavern 
of  darkness.  Night  had  come  upon  them  unawares. 

"I  must  be  going,"  she  said. 

"Stay." 

He  went  into  his  bedroom.  Constant  had  left  a  shaded 
lamp  burning  on  the  dressing-table.  The  room  was  in 
perfect  order.  His  narrow  camp-bed  was  covered  with 
a  white  counterpane.  By  his  bedside  stood  a  bottle  of  eau- 
de-Cologne.  On  his  toilet  table  lay  a  pair  of  ebony  hair- 
brushes, with  his  initials  in  silver.  They  had  come  that 
morning.  The  general  looked  at  them  with  pride.  His 
old  brush  was  a  very  old  one. 

He  went  to  the  chest  of  drawers  and  took  out  a  small 
parcel.  Then  he  hurried  back  to  Josephine. 

The  candles  burned  very  brightly.  He  had  lit  them  in 
her  honor.  He  had  taken  the  tinder-box  from  the  mantel- 
shelf and  lit  every  one  of  them.  He  had  done  it  almost 


LOVE  257 

mechanically.  In  his  heart  a  great  light  had  blazed  .  .  . 
sign  and  token  of  fulfilment;  she  had  come  to  him  of  her 
own  accord.  He  had  opened  the  doors  wide. 

He  came  back  into  the  room,  closing  the  doors  after 
him. 

"You  have  got  to  trust  me,  Josephine,  now  and  always." 

He  couldn't  look  at  her  enough.  He  was  sick  and  dizzy 
with  his  own  emotion.  He  couldn't  honor  her  enough — 
in  his  own  way,  which  was  not  strictly  puritanical.  He 
was  a  passionate,  headstrong  lover,  and  she  found  his 
kisses  "very  nice."  (Oh,  the  irony  of  circumstance!) 
Yet  when  he  laid  the  curb  on  himself  pretty  heavily,  she 
ididn't  appreciate  his  obvious  sacrifice.  "Don't  worry," 
said  her  eyes,  slightly  veiled. 

She  was  amused  at  his  passion.  It  was  so  easily  kindled. 
Terezia  was  utterly  in  the  wrong.  .  .  . 

"We  want  the  same  thing,"  he  said,  crushing  her  against 
his  body. 

She  was  passive  in  his  embrace.  She  understood  per- 
fectly. No  doubt  she  allowed  him  liberties.  And  if  she 
hadn't  he  would  have  taken  them — imperially.  He  was  a 
grasp-all,  Bonaparte;  at  times  relentless  and  cruel.  His 
good  angel — never  invoked  except  in  her  presence — was 
not  overworked. 

The  glow  in  his  eyes  was  very  faintly  reflected  in  her 
own.  Women,  don't  you  envy  her?  We  would  have 
gloried  in  his  kisses.  We  can  say  as  much,  now  that  he 
is  dead,  without  any  grave  loss  of  self-respect. 

In  that  candle-lit  parlor  they  are  blissfully  happy — 
let's  include  her — after  all,  men  and  women  run  in  couples. 
They  are  happily,  blissfully  ignorant  of  their  future.  The 
little  lady  in  brown  no  more  dreams  of  divorce-courts 
than  he  of  a  barren  island  cast  upon  the  sea.  Whatever 
he  does,  she  never  glimpses  an  imperial  crown.  .  .  .  "Her 
Majesty  the  Empress":  there  is  a  clang  about  that  title 
which  appeals  to  every  daughter  of  Eve.  Had  the  Fates 
come  tripping  down  the  room,  whispering  into  her  ear 


258  LOVE 

such  things,  she  would  have  repudiated  them  as  silly 
geese. 

She  nestled  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "Nothing  on 
earth  matters,"  she  said,  "except  that  you  love  me  and 
I  love  you.  You'll  never  look  at  another  woman?" 

He  shivered  at  her  suggestion.  "Never,"  he  said,  hor- 
ror-struck. 

He  cooed  over  her  unintelligible  language.  "Yes,"  she 
said,  "yes,  it  is  very  nice." 

His  eyes  shone  like  stars.     They  even  startled  her. 

In  leaping  cadences  he  told  her  of  the  advent  of  twelve 
white  horses  and  a  gold  coach.  At  some  brilliant  ceremony 
where  her  figure  was  to  outshine  every  other  figure  that 
ever  was,  past,  present  and  hereafter.  As  he  talked  he 
clutched  her  arms  as  in  a  vice.  As  if  he  was  holding  her 
back  from  a  precipice  in  a  high  wind.  Poor  Josephine! 
He  quoted  to  her  strange  passages  from  Ossian  (whoever 
he  was).  Poor  Josephine!  Yet  his  personality  pleased 
her  ...  if  she  didn't  see  too  much  of  him  she'd  like  him 
ever  so  well. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  darling?" 

"Nothing  particular.  Twelve  white  horses — that'll  be 
very  smart." 

His  sombre  eyes  stared  at  her  fiercely. 

"You  don't  believe  me!     You  think  I'm  telling  lies!" 

"Oh,  no,  dear." 

"I'll  love  you  until  death  parts  us.  I'll  love  you  for 
all  eternity.  Josephine,  you  are  so  wonderful,  so  won- 
derful!" 

That  was  better.  "I  believe  you,  sir,"  she  said  gently, 
with  the  faintest  little  sigh  in  parenthesis.  Such  life-long 
devotion  would  be  tedious.  Ah,  well,  he'd  go  to  the 
wars.  .  .  . 

"  'Tall  as  glittering  rock,'  "  he  quoted.  "  'His  spear- 
is  a  blasted  pine.  His  shield  the  rising  moon.  ...  I 
never  yield  to  mortal  man.  Dark  Cathullin  shall  be  great 
or  dead.  And  the  sound  of  their  going  was  as  the  rushing 
of  a  stream  of  foam  when  the  thunder  is  travelling  above, 


LOVE  259 

and  dark-brown  night  sits  on  half  the  hill.  .  .  .  Fly,  king 
of  the  ocean!  Fly!'  Isn't  it  beautiful?  He's  bound 
to  win  .  .  .  immortality.  The  sea  is  open  to  all  birds. 
The  supreme  effort  of  this  world  is  the  capture  of  beauty." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  me,  Josephine."  His  voice 
trembled.  "I  may  fail.  You  may  be  marrying  a  poor 
general  who  will  always  remain  a  poor  general."  He 
hung  his  head. 

"Nonsense !"  she  said  briskly.  "I  wish  you'd  drink  milk 
or  butter,  or  something.  I  want  my  poor  general  fatter." 

How  pleased  he  looked!  He  pressed  her  hands  in 
tender  homage. 

"Was  there  ever  anyone  so  thoughtful  and  so  practical 
as  you,  Josephine!" 

"They  have  not  done  half  enough  for  you.  And  oh, 
Bonaparte,  get  another  horse." 

He  flushed  painfully.  The  mounts  placed  at  the  service 
of  the  general  in  command  were  notoriously  bony  and  evil- 
fed  beasts — the  laugh  of  the  town.  He  took  it  out  of 
them,  too.  Perpetually,  sitting  loosely  in  his  saddle,  he 
was  clattering  round  the  town,  seeing  that  his  orders  were 
properly  carried  out. 

"A  thousand  angels  guard  you.  If  I  rise — little  Jose- 
phine— I'll  get  a  thoroughbred.  You  wait.  I'll  be  so 
smart  you  won't  know  me." 

"I  don't  like  waiting." 

"I  hate  it!" 

"Hurry  them  up.  M.  Barras  is  a  reasonable  man.  The 
others  don't  count.  Tallien  will  do  anything  for  popu- 
larity." She  laughed  gaily.  "Sir,  they  are  all  jealous  of 
you !  It  is  most  amusing.  Only  you  must  not  let  things 
cool  off." 

"Do  I?"  he  said. 

"Not  always.  Sometimes  you  are  a  very  forward  young 
man.  Men  ought  to  treat  their  careers  as  women,  the 
women  they  love." 

He  kissed  her  rapturously. 


260  LOVE 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  and  the  cleverest  woman 
in  all  the  world !"  He  sobered  down.  "With  you  I'll  suc- 
ceed. 'The  strong  winds  blow.' " 

"No,  no  more  poetry,  darling.  I  don't  understand  it. 
It  is  very  beautiful,  but  I  don't  understand  it.  It  makes 
my  head  ache.  What  is  in  that  parcel?" 

"Forgive  me.     I  am  a  heartless  monster." 

"Never  mind,  general  darling.  Is  it  a  present  for  me? 
What  can  it  be?" 

"Guess." 

"I  am  a  poor  hand  at  guessing.    I'd  rather  look." 

They  looked  together;  and  all  the  candles.  Such  an 
exciting  moment.  Eagerly  Bonaparte  undid  the  parcel 
and  held  out  for  her  inspection  a  diminutive  pair  of  ruby 
velvet  slippers,  lined  with  whitest  fur. 

"How  sweet!"  said  Josephine,  who  always  took  a  pres- 
ent nicely. 

He  tried  them  on  for  her.     "Are  they  comfortable?" 

"Just  my  size." 

He  held  her  feet  in  his  hands.  "I  could  look  at  them  for 
ever,"  he  said  devoutly. 

And  there  she  sat — far  back  on  the  great  sofa — her 
little  feet  flirting  in  their  ruby  velvet  slippers  edged  with 
whitest  rabbit-skin.  "Don't  they  look  nice?"  she  said. 
"Bonaparte,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  secret." 

His  curiosity  was  boundless. 

She  whispered  some  trifling  little  matter  in  his  ear.  She 
clapped  her  hands.  Incidentally  she  mentioned  his  lucky 
number,  probably  some  date  or  other.  "You  shan't  have 
it  an  hour  earlier.  A  whole  fortnight  of  dreams  and  hopes 
deferred.  I've  no  intention  of  spoiling  you.  .  .  ." 

Her  gentle  voice,  very  soft  and  colorless,  tinkled  as  a 
low-toned  bell. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet  as  a  drunken  man  reels.  He 
caught  savagely  at  her  breast,  digging  his  fingers  deep 
into  her  tender  flesh.  He  rocked  her  to  and  fro  in  an 
ecstasy  of  joy.  "It  is  destiny!"  he  said.  "Destiny!" 

And  the  little  candles  winked  almost  as  if  they  approved 


LOVE  261 

of  everything.  They  knew  she  had  mentioned  his  lucky 
number.  One  or  two  guttered  contentedly.  One  or  two 
—prosaic  ones — nauseated  by  so  much  human  folly,  quietly 
went  out. 

And   in   the   darkness  —  presently  —  Napoleon   kissed 
Josephine. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

months  sped  on  fiery  wings.  He  lived  in  an  atmos- 
phere  of  work  (boundless),  ambition  (boundless),  and 
love  (boundless).  It  is  only  your  small-holders  who  de- 
light in  fences. 

Very  likely  all  that  happened  later  lay  clipped  and  ready 
in  his  fertile  mind  against  certain  dates.  Why  not?  His 
was  such  an  exceptional  mind,  so  roomy,  so  confident, 
except  when  the  clouds  descended.  Only  a  fool  is  always 
an  optimist.  Days  and  days  his  head  was  bowed  to  the 
storm — at  this  date — of  degradation.  The  Army  Council 
— or  whoever  it  was — had  not  seen  fit  to  change  his  mount. 
As  a  figure  perilously  close  to  fun  General  Street  rode 
round  Paris  on  his  sorry  nags.  Once  or  twice,  you  remem- 
ber, he  came  to  an  encounter  with  the  people.  The  story 
of  the  stout  market  woman  who  accused  him  and  his  class 
of  riotous  living  (those  parties  in  the  Arcades  and  the 
wanton  waste  of  things — including  moral — had  circulated 
freely)  has  come  down  to  history.  History  now  and  again 
takes  to  a  human  story.  "If  it  comes  to  that,  mother, 
which  of  us  is  the  fattest?"  The  good-humored  retort 
pleased  the  crowd.  The  startlingly  thin  general  trotted 
back,  on  his  sorry  nag,  the  victor. 

If  it  came  to  that,  he  was  generally  victorious.  Nothing 
splendid  or  dashing,  you  understand,  but  he  got  his  own 
way.  Night  and  day  he  worked.  At  vespers  and  at  matins 
he  Wrote  to  her.  .  .  .  Working  and  dreaming  he  thought 
of  her.  No  cool,  calculating  touch  here — burning,  idola- 
trous passion.  She  was  all  in  all  to  him — his  star,  his 
choice,  his  woman.  We  can't  fathom  any  other  reading. 
To  speak  of  his  love  for  Josephine,  or  rather  his  marriage 
to  her,  as  an  act  of  deliberate  diplomacy,  based  on  purely 
material  grounds,  strikes  us  as  calumny.  His  love-letters 

262 


LOVE  263 

prove  the  contrary.  They  are  not  reasonable  letters, 
artistically  balanced  to  please  a  vain  woman,  but  the  out- 
pourings of  a  starved  heart.  He  feeds  on  her  smiles ; 
he  treasures  her  least  word;  her  little  ring  went  with 
him  always. 

We  all  know  he  bored  her.  She  considered  his  love- 
making  ponderous,  and  his  letters  unreadable  and  far  too 
many. 

Clementine,  her  invaluable  maid,  deplored  her  mistress's 
want  of  interest  in  the  little  general.  Clementine  had  a 
warm  spot  in  her  heart  for  all  lovers.  General  Bonaparte 
was  so  palpably  devoted  to  Madame  Josephine — so  terribly 
upset  by  a  rebuff  from  the  gentle  widow — and  gentle  women 
can  give  knock-out  blows — that  Clementine's  sympathy 
was  all  on  his  side.  What  if  his  letters  were  unreadable? 
She  need  not  have  treated  them  as  unpaid  bills — merely 
waving  them  aside  as  so  much  waste-paper.  .  .  .  "Another 
letter  from  the  general?  Oh,  thank  you,  Clementine.  Put 
it  down  there."  Clementine  would  put  it  "down  there" 
with  a  mighty  frown  on  her  pretty  face,  and  Josephine 
would  continue  placidly  to  read  her  novel  or  finish  her 
peach,  or  whatever  she  was  doing.  Maybe  only  thinking 
how  charmingly  M.  Charles  danced  the  fandango,  or  what- 
ever the  dance  a  la  mode  was  called.  It  is  always  very 
much  the  same  thing.  Rain  is  rain  and  sun  is  sun — eh? 
Variable  ?  Yes,  sir,  but  fundamentally  the  identical  article. 
And  as  to  life — spread  it  out  over  leagues  or  roll  it  up 
in  a  tight  corner,  and  you  don't  get  much  change  out  of 
it.  The  clock  ticks  and  the  minutes  march. 

Aunt  Fanny  was  a  great  comfort  to  her  niece.  She 
encouraged  her  to  do  the  right  thing.  To  consider  her 
children  and  her  own  prospects.  Also  she  backed  the 
general  for  all  she  was  worth. 

"You  are  lucky,  Josephine,"  she  would  say,  opening  her 
wide  reticule  and  dropping  in  something  handy.  (The 
widow's  table  was  very  well  provided.)  "I  have  every  con- 
fidence in  General  Bonaparte.  His  is  an  upright  and 
honest  nature.  And  he  loves  you." 


264  LOVE 

"Yes,"  Josephine  would  assent  meekly. 

"I  don't  say  you  are  not  honoring  him,  my  dear,"  the 
old  lady  would  continue.  "As  far  as  family  goes  we  have 
the  advantage,  but  mark  my  words,  he  has  got  the 
brains " 

"Yes,"  said  Josephine  again.     "Do  they  matter?" 

Aunt  Fanny — an  authoress  of  repute,  remember — would 
toss  her  head  and  say  they  mattered  very  much  indeed. 

Though,  in  his  relationship  to  Josephine,  we  insist  on 
his  love  in  the  first  instance,  it  would  be  folly  to  say  he 
was  blind  to  every  other  consideration.  He  was  proud 
of  her  aristocratic  connections.  He  would  listen  respect- 
fully to  Aunt  Fanny's  stories  of  the  prowess  and  lineage 
of  the  family  Tacher  de  la  Pagerie.  And  what  a  noble 
man  was  Josephine's  father — though  poor  and  a  planter. 
What  a  good  woman  was  her  mother.  Never  spent  a 
farthing  on  her  dress.  Aunt  Fanny  left  it  to  conjecture 
if  her  daughter,  Josephine,  had  inherited  the  maternal 
virtue.  Also,  though  she  spoke  a  good  deal — directly  and 
indirectly — of  blue  blood,  she  never  once  mentioned  black. 
Which  shows  you  she  was  human. 

We  would  like  to  linger  over  these  little  intimate  evenings 
when  the  general,  his  sweetheart,  and  his  best  friend  spent 
a  happy  time  together  in  the  widow's  pretty  drawing- 
room  in  the  Rue  Chantereine,  but  we  haven't  the  time. 
They  would  sit  round  the  lamp,  Aunt  Fanny  knitting  and 
talking,  twenty  to  the  dozen,  in  an  amazing  "patchwork" 
old-world  dress — something  that  didn't  spoil  but  which 
looked  "nice."  Dear  Aunt  Fanny!  she  was  always  so 
complacently  assured  of  her  own  appearance.  Josephine 
would  eat  more  chocolates  than  the  stitches  she  put  into 
her  work.  Bonaparte  would  sit  on  the  stiff  little  chair 
he  fancied,  opposite  the  ladies,  paying  the  profoundest 
attention  to  both.  He  didn't  talk  much.  However,  now 
and  again  he  would  surprise  the  ladies  by  his  concise  and 
fluent  speech.  He'd  spring  to  his  feet,  walk  up  and  down 
the  room,  and  display  extraordinary  volubility.  Josephine 
would  look  at  the  clock.  She  knew  from  bitter  experience 


\ 


LOVE  265 

that  when  once  her  shy  young  man  lost  his  shyness,  he'd 
talk  for  ever.  If  nothing  stopped  him.  We  may  be  sure 
that  she  did,  sooner  or  later.  "Good  night,  general.  I'm 
afraid  I  must  interrupt  you.  .  .  .  How  very  interesting! 
It  is  time  for  us  all  to  be  in  bed.  You  are  so  fearfully 
energetic." 

She  could  do  what  she  liked  with  him,  really.  Twist 
him  round  her  little  finger,  as  the  saying  is.  Down  the 
streets  he'd  tramp — that  heavenly  December-tide — in  the 
dark  and  in  the  cold,  wrapped  in  his  glory.  When  he  got 
home  he  would  very  soon  dismiss  Constant — if  indeed  he 
stayed  up  for  him  at  all — and  sit  down  at  once  and  write 
to  her. 

A  real  love-letter!  Oh,  thou  poor  ghost  of  a  happy 
moment,  though  it  tears  one's  heart  to  say  so,  it  were  better 
if  thou  were  burnt  alive,  than  kept  to  wither  and  fade,  to 
grow  old  and  uninteresting,  a  relic  of  purely  commercial 
value.  (What  is  the  price  of  Napoleon's  original  love- 
letters?) 

She — she  never  valued  them,  bless  you?  Madam — take 
care.  Good  heavens,  what  a  scatterbrain  fool!  We  see 
her  flinging  them  on  the  fire,  and  we  imagine  the  wrath 
of  her  heirs-at-law. 

Maybe  there  were  reasons  for  Josephine's  hideous  ex- 
travagance. Some  letters  are  wisest  not  kept.  The  fire 
purifies  them  of  all  evil.  Very  likely  that  headstrong, 
giddy  young  man  of  hers  would  in  ardent  language  recall 
and  bless  her  for  some  indiscretion  which  good  taste  would 
never  have  mentioned.  Josephine  did  not  set  up  to  be 
strong-minded.  If  she  slipped — very  gracefully — off  the 
moral  plank  into  a  sea — all  sunlit  and  golden — which  has 
wetted  a  good  many  excellent  intentions,  who  can  blame 
her?  We  believe  that  she  was  just  sufficiently  "good"  to 
be  at  times  sorry  for  her  naughtiness.  There  are  heaps 
of  Josephines  in  this  world,  and  they  gain,  on  the  whole, 
rather  an  unfair  amount  of  attention  and  forgiveness.  Her 
pretty  little  mouth  was  lined  with  excuses.  Not  that  she 
aired  them — it  was  so  unnecessary. 


266  LOVE 

The  New  Year  of  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety-six 
opened  under  the  most  propitious  circumstances  for  both 
our  hero  and  heroine.  As  to  Madame  Tallien,  she  was 
in  great  form  and  splendid  confidence.  And  more  out- 
rageous than  ever.  She  openly  flaunted  Tallien.  Tallien 
writhed  and  gibbered  and  plotted.  To  what  purpose  you 
will  hear  later.  His  humility  was  only  equalled  by  his 
conceit.  With  an  invisible  tape  in  his  trembling  hand — 
the  hand  of  a  weak  man — he  took  Bonaparte's  measure. 
He  found  it  beneath  contempt.  How  the  gods  laughed! 
The  churches  in  France  were  shut,  you  remember,  by 
order — but  they  congregated  in  the  open,  anywhere  they 
could  gather  under  the  stars,  and  shouted,  "Wrong — 
wrong — wrong!"  "Eh?"  said  Tallien,  his  evil  eyes  squint- 
ing terribly.  Naturally  he  never  saw  the  gods,  though  he 
heard  their  voices. 

Josephine  sat  leaning  over  the  fire  one  January  evening 
— she  was  a  chilly  little  mortal — with  the  general's  last 
love-letter  in  her  hand,  screening  her  face  from  the  heat. 

The  gentle  widow — as  other  gentle  widows  have  done  and 
will  do — was  amusing  herself  by  comparing  her  impetuous 
and  accepted  lover  with  other  candidates  for  her  favor. 
Needless  to  say — in  many  points — he  failed  to  score.  In 
comparison  M.  Barras  was  the  mirror  of  fashion  and  the 
soul  of  discretion.  M.  Barras  would  never  have  written 
a  thing  like  that.  Unconsciously  the  letter  in  her  hand 
quivered,  whether  in  protest  or  admiration  we  are  not  bound 
to  say.  M.  Barras'  love-letters  were  the  genteelest  pro- 
ductions possible  of  an  empty  mind.  From  their  letters 
was  but  a  step  to  their  conversation.  Every  word  M.  Paul 
Barras  had  addressed  to  her  was  perfectly  intelligible.  The 
general's  speech  was  painfully  involved — truth  to  tell,  often 
she  never  knew  what  he  was  talking  about  .  .  .  not  that 
it  mattered. 

Josephine  didn't  believe  in  miracles  nor  greatly  credit 
the  stars  with  anything  except  a  feeble  light.  To  say 
they  guided  her  destiny  was  nonsense.  .  .  .  she  hid  a 


LOVE  267 

yawn  behind  her  letter  and  sat  back  in  her  deep  pink 
velvet  chair,  and  shifted  the  position  of  her  feet  on  the 
fleecy  white  rug.  She  had  just  bought  new  lamp-shades 
...  so  pretty — all  pink  silk  and  painted  medallions.  Out- 
side the  wind  howled.  They  said  snow  was  falling.  The 
pink  silk  curtains  were  drawn. 

She  leaned  pensively  forward  and  smiled  into  the  heart 
of  the  fire — such  a  good  one.  Clementine  had  built  it  up 
from  little  sticks  and  cedar  logs.  Behind  her  head  was 
a  green  rush  basket  of  lilies-of-the-valley — forced,  poor 
dears,  but  a  generous  present  from  dear  M.  Charles.  He 
must  have  paid  a  fortune  for  them.  The  Maison  Henri 
was  so  expensive. 

"I  wonder,"  she  thought,  "what  his  people  are  like? 
Paul  tells  me  the  sisters  are  handsome.  I  wonder  if  there 
is  any  truth  in  the  story  that  his  mother — Letitia,  isn't 
that  the  name? — rides  about  on  a  fat  donkey,  with  two 
big  flagons  of  oil  in  the  saddle-pockets,  selling  it  in  small 
quantities  at  a  profit?  It  does  not  sound  ladylike.  I  do 
hope  they  are  not  disreputable.  I  really  know  nothing 
about  him,  of  course,  except  that  he  is  a  soldier  who  has 
made  some  little  stir  for  himself.  It  is  a  shame  to  forget 
Toulon.  Surely  getting  rid  of  the  English  was  cleverer 
than  scattering  a  handful  of  our  own  people?  People 
never  keep  to  the  truth.  ...  It  is  a  great  thing  in  his 
favor  that  they  are  jealous  of  him." 

Then  she  thought  of  poor  dear  Alexandre,  surrounded 
by  the  spirits  of  his  ancestors.  As  far  as  family  went, 
her  first  husband  was  irreproachable.  They  hadn't  got 
on  together,  but  that  was  quite  another  thing.  With  a 
sigh  Josephine  came  to  the  conclusion  that  you  can't  expect 
everything  in  this  life.  And  that  it  is  no  use  complaining. 
Also  that  it  is  our  bounden  duty  to  make  the  best  of 
circumstances. 

She  reached  out  her  arm  and  touched  the  grey-worsted 
bell-rope. 

"Yes,  ma'am?" 

"If  the  general  calls  to-night,  Clementine,  I'm  not  receiv- 


268  LOVE 

ing.  Remind  him  that  he  is  lunching  here  to-morrow.  I 
feel  rather  tired,  and  I'll  go  to  bed.* 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Every  tone  in  Clementine's  voice  was  eloquent  of  dis- 
approval. She  just  hated  having  to  give  that  heartless 
message  to  General  Bonaparte.  She  knew  very  well  how 
he  would  receive  it.  He'd  turn  white  as  a  sheet — the  joyful 
anticipation  in  his  beautiful  eyes  wiped  clean  out.  He'd 
stumble  down  the  stairs  without  a  word.  It  was  God's 
mercy  if  he  didn't  fall  dead  at  her  feet! 

Clementine  put  a  log  on  the  fire  and  did  not  look  at 
Madame.  Very  well  for  her  to  sit  over  the  fire  in  a  pink 
velvet  chair,  in  a  blue  satin  dress,  eating  sugared  almonds 
— and  give  her  inhuman  orders — she  hadn't  to  carry 
them  out. 

Not  at  home,  indeed!  How  often  during  the  past 
months  hadn't  Clementine  almost  banged  the  hall  door  in 
the  face  of  the  doomed  general  rather  than  tell  him  a 
lie,  and  save  him  from  the  ignominy  of  hearing  madame's 
silvery  laugh  and  the  laugh  of  other  people  too. 

Josephine  had  told  Clementine  that  the  general  was  a 
tyrant.  Quite  early  in  their  engagement  he  had  looked 
evilly  on  her  intimacy  with  the  Talliens.  Lately  he  had 
forbidden  her  to  go  to  La  Chaumiere. 

"I  don't  approve  of  Madame  Tallien,"  he  had  said.  "She 
is  not  fit  society  for  my  future  wife.  .  .  ." 

Hoity-toity,  what  airs  and  graces  for  a  penniless 
Nobody !  Terezia  had  laughed  as  well  as  anyone  at  General 
Bonaparte's  absurd  pretensions.  And  to  show  her  truly 
Christian  spirit  she  continued  to  send  him  cards  for  her 
parties.  And  he  continued  to  stay  away.  In  her  heart 
of  hearts  Josephine  was  rather  pleased  at  her  lover's 
firmness.  "My  darling  Terezia,"  she  would  laugh,  "what- 
ever have  you  done  to  him !"  Terezia  would  look  volumes 
— not  at  all  in  "darling  Josephine's"  taste.  Really,  that 
woman's  conceit  was  outrageous. 

The  front  bell  pealed  through  the  house. 


LOVE  269 

"There  he  is,"  said  Clementine,  her  hand  on  her  heart. 
"See  him  only  for  five  minutes,  ma'am?" 

"Not  one,"  said  Josephine,  with  almost  Bonaparte's 
obstinacy. 

The  bell  rang  again.  Clementine  ran  to  answer  it.  Jose- 
phine ran  to  the  window  and  peeped  through  the  blinds. 
Fortune  got  up  from  the  hearthrug  to  stretch  himself 
and  give  a  suspicious  bark.  Fortune  did  not  love  the 
general.  He  was  too  clever  a  dog  not  to  realize  that 
Bonaparte  was  his  rival,  though  even  he  did  not  realize 
his  importance.  Bonaparte — when  Josephine  was  not 
looking — would  kick  at  him  in  defense  of  his  calves.  For- 
tune would  jump  at  him,  trying  to  get  a  bite  in  some- 
where. 

The  general,  thick  in  the  clouds,  marched  home  again, 
in  a  violent  rage.  There  is  nothing  like  baulked  love  for 
making  us  feel  desperate.  We  rather  fancy  he  covered 
his  thumbed  translation  of  Ossian  with  scalding  tears — 
the  tears  of  bitter  disappointment.  She  didn't  love  him 
.  .  .  she  didn't  care  a  button  for  him.  She  deliberately 
insulted  him.  He'd  be  damned  before  he  went  to  her 
lunch  to-morrow,  probably  to  meet  a  party  of  silly  fools ! 
.  .  .  You  can  fancy  what  an  exhibition  he  made  of 
himself.  You  can  also  be  positive  that  nothing  on  earth 
would  have  prevented  him  going  back  to  her  house  to-mor- 
row, a  humble,  patient,  nay,  grateful  lover.  During  the 
courting  seasons  the  females — particularly  the  selfish 
ones — make  all  the  scoring. 

The  lamplight  fell  on  her  portrait — a  little  water-color 
sketch  by  a  rising  artist.  She  had  given  it  to  him  as  a 
birthday  present — on  his  twenty-sixth  birthday.  It  was 
a  flattering  likeness.  The  artist  had  to  a  nicety  caught 
the  lady's  expression,  given  her  a  complexion  of  cream 
and  roses  and  a  neck  a  swan  might  envy.  Her  short- 
waisted  dress  was  of  white  satin,  girdled  with  narrow  blue 
ribbon.  .  .  .  Just  as  he  had  seen  her  that  first  time,  float- 
ing as  an  angel  of  beauty  through  the  crowded  reception- 
rooms  of  the  Luxembourg.  He  had  gazed  and  gazed  his 


270  LOVE 

heart  away.  It  is  not  only  our  imagination — or  his — but 
a  little  bit  of  all  truth.  Which  is  so  precious. 

To-night  he  was  passionately  sure  of  his  case.  Such 
love  as  his  was  unique.  In  all  the  history  of  love  he 
stood  alone — he  and  his  bleeding  heart  .  .  .  they  all  say 
that. 

Something  whips  us  into  making  horrid  suggestions, 
mean  little  asides.  Why  can't  we  take  love  as  it  comes 
— from  the  perennial  stream  flowing  from  the  fount  of 
Eternity  for  our  necessities? 

Her  picture  evoked  a  thousand  fond  recollections.  He 
recalled  her  at  her  most  bewitching,  tranquil  moments — 
a  very  glory  of  a  woman,  soft,  acquiescent,  warm. 

"Josephine!"  he  called.      "Josephine!" 

Only  a  short  half-hour  back  he  had  sat  at  this  very  table, 
confident  of  his  success.  Through  her  he  would  attain  the 
unattainable.  Without  her  he  was  lost.  He  had  no  initia- 
tive to  continue ;  victory  was  valueless.  Ambition  a  howl- 
ing mockery.  Death  was  the  only  solution  of  misery.  He 
would  die  that  she  might  remember.  Sacrifice  a  single  tear 
to  his  memory.  .  .  . 

Very  probably  he  labored  through  these  imaginings, 
believing  them  to  be  his  last  word  and  testament.  Remem- 
ber, she  had  tried  him  sorely. 

She  was  as  necessary  to  him  as  food  and  drink — as 
light  and  air — as  recognition  and  music.  Her  faintest 
caress  fanned  his  purpose  to  flames. 

The  unhappy  young  man  knelt  on  the  floor  beside  the 
big  sofa  and  buried  his  face  on  the  hard  pillow  where  her 
head  had  rested — sacred  pillow!  A  faint,  subtle  perfume 
affected  his  senses  to  torture.  He  had  no  difficulty  in 
conjuring  her  actual  presence.  By  the  sheer  strength 
of  his  will  he  held  her  in  his  arms — frail,  white,  living — 
a  rose  of  a  woman! 

Here  she  had  sat  in  all  her  inimitable  grace — here  he 
had  knelt  worshipping  at  her  feet.  He  crushed  the  cushion 
in  his  arms.  His  stormy  eyes  filled  with  light.  Hope 
returned  as  a  bird  on  the  wing. 


LOVE  271 

We  only  know  elation  who  understand  depression.  One 
is  the  natural  outcome  of  the  other. 

"Josephine,"  he  whispered.  "In  my  triumph  you  shall 
triumph.  All  I  have  is  yours.  I  love  you!  I  want  you! 
Precious " 

He  rose  and  paced  the  room.  His  face  was  haggard 
as  the  face  of  one  who  has  endured  physical  pain.  For 
an  hour  or  more  he  strode  up  and  down  the  room — 
keeping  to  the  strip  of  matting  stretching  from  door  to 
door.  His  mind  was  aflame,  changing  from  grave  to  gay. 
At  one  moment  he  doubted  her,  the  next  he  was  raptur- 
ously assured  of  her  fidelity,  supported  by  substantial 
facts  (fighter  than  air).  Some  incident,  some  little  word 
would  again  upset  his  clear  conviction.  He  had  only  him- 
self to  blame.  He  had  lived  in  a  fool's  paradise.  In  a 
revulsion  of  feeling  he  apostrophized  her  in  the  most 
scathing  words  at  his  command — all  of  which  Josephine, 
asleep  in  her  comfortable  bed,  under  her  flowered  silk 
quilt,  was  happily  unconscious  of.  The  general's  temper — 
at  a  distance — never  worried  her,  which  attitude  towards 
life  saves  us  infinite  amount  of  trouble. 

If  the  pretty  widow — contrary  to  fate — had  wearied 
of  her  exacting  Bonaparte,  and  in  a  spirit  of  pique  or 
pride  had  married  someone  else — say  Hoche  or  Coulain- 
court — both  her  devoted  admirers — would  he  have  survived 
his  loss?  We  rather  fancy  he  would  have  got  his  shattered 
dignity  mended  as  soon  as  possible  and  looked  out  for — 
and  found — Number  Two  in  no  while.  We  are  generally 
true  to  ourselves.  He  loved  Josephine,  but  he  loved  Ambi- 
tion better.  Pacing  his  chamber,  that  wild  winter  night 
— it  was  snowing  heavily — he  would  have  repudiated  our 
suggestions  as  utterly  false  and  heartless — both  wrong  to 
himself  and  to  her.  .  .  .  Josephine — his  Josephine  .  .  . 
who  could  not  deny  him  anything!  Then  again  the  ham- 
mer of  Justice  would  come  down  in  vengeance  and  break 
to  pieces  such  precious  truth.  He  saw  Clementine — some- 
what crestfallen — refusing  him  admittance  to  the  House 


272  LOVE 

of  Dreams.     Josephine — from  her  wealth — had  sent  him 
away  a  beggar. 

Trembling  he  sat  down  at  his  table,  and  wrote  to  her. 
Under  excess  of  emotion,  even  good  handwriting  grows 
irregular.  We  are  sure  his  grew  from  bad  to  worse.  Not 
that  it  mattered.  You  see,  she  would  never  take  the  pains 
of  deciphering  his  effusions,  in  any  case.  At  most  she 
picked  out  a  sentence  or  two.  As  we  know,  some  of  them 
offended  her. 

".  .  .  My  beautiful  Josephine,  you  are  as  far  removed 
from  me  as  the  stars.  Yet  I  love  you  tenderly.  You  are 
never  absent  from  my  heart.  Waking  and  sleeping  you 
fill  my  thoughts  to  the  extinction  of  everything  else  (which 
was  not  true).  I  know  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you, 
nothing  but  my  eternal  love  and  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime. 
Darling,  darling,  as  if  I  did  not  know  that  a  throne  itself 
wouldn't  tempt  you  to  sacrifice  your  heart  to  worldly  ambi- 
tion. If  needs  must,  I  will  step  out  of  your  life.  Sorceress, 
recall  me !  In  whatever  corner  of  the  world  I  am — across 
oceans  and  deserts — your  beloved  voice  would  reach  my 
ears.  It  is  music  in  my  ears.  If  needs  must,  I  will  break 
the  most  wonderful  love-story  in  the  world.  What  am 
I  but  a  slave,  a  slave  born  to  obey  his  queen?  I  adore 
you.  I  love  you  more  than  words  can  say.  But  there  is 
a  limit  to  human  endurance.  You  have  made  me  suffer 
agonies  to-night.  For  the  first  time  I  realize  (it  was  not 
the  first  time)  that  you  cannot  love  me.  That  you  despise 
me.  Oh,  Josephine!  do  you  think  I  am  made  of  stone,  to 
be  trampled  upon  without  effect?  Can  you  not  see  my 
bleeding  heart  lying  at  your  feet — those  little  feet  I  have 
so  often  kissed?  Nothing  can  alter  my  devotion.  I'd 
rather  be  your  husband  than  Emperor  of  France!  Why 
did  you  send  me  away  to-night?  Cruel  Josephine!  For- 
give me,  darling.  I've  no  shadow  of  right  to  blame  you. 
Yesterday  you  were  very  kind,  a  real  angel  of  sweetness. 
Perhaps  it  is  best  that  we  never  meet  again?  I  am  a 
vulgar  brute  without  any  restraint.  When  I  see  you  I 


LOVE  273 

go  clean  off  my  head.  You  set  me  on  fire.  There  is  no 
obstacle  between  us — there  is  nothing  but  yourself — your 
wonderful,  wonderful  self.  Precious,  precious  Josephine, 
I  kiss  you  fondly.  NAPOLEON." 

Constant  took  it  round  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
The  city  was  white  with  snow  and  glorious  with  sunshine. 
The  stillness  was  remarkable,  and  the  air  crystal-clear. 

"Good  morning,  citoyenne"  said  Constant,  stamping 
the  snow  from  off  his  boots. 

"Good  morning,"  answered  Clementine  cheerfully,  who 
was  busy  brushing  down  the  door-steps  of  No.  6,  Rue  de 
Chantereine.  That  invaluable  Clementine  could  do  every- 
thing not  only  well  but  expeditiously.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  watch  her  work,  and  her  smiling,  good-natured  face. 
That  baker's  young  man  of  hers  knew  a  good  thing  when 
he  proposed  to  her.  What  a  wife  to  get !  How  spotless 
she'd  keep  his  house — how  quiet  his  babies — how  contented 
himself — and  how  good  his  puddings  would  be! 

She  took  the  letter  Constant  handed  to  her. 

"Poor  general!"  she  said.     "How  did  he  sleep?" 

"The  general  never  went  to  bed  at  all,  mam'selle." 

"T'ja!  men  are  fools!"  said  Clementine. 

Constant  shook  his  head,  not  wishing  to  commit  him- 
self one  way  or  another. 

Clementine  put  the  general's  letter  on  the  tray,  when 
she  brought  Josephine  her  early  cup  of  chocolate. 

"Another  one?"  said  Josephine,  sitting  up  in  bed  in  a 
very  becoming  night-cap.  "Draw  back  the  blinds,  Cle- 
mentine." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

*  "O  ABY,  come  and  look  at  the  snow,"  called  Josephine 
•*-*  to  her  daughter. 

Hortense  de  Beauharnais  was  a  pretty,  fair-haired,  fine- 
grown  child  between  ten  and  eleven,  whom  her  mother — 
as  fond  mothers  are  apt  to  do — particularly  with  their 
youngest-born — refused  to  believe  would  ever  outgrow  her 
first  pair  of  shoes.  When  Clementine  and  Hortense  insisted 
to  the  contrary,  Josephine  merely  shook  her  head  and  said 
she  would  not  have  it.  She  wanted  her  baby  always, 
always.  Hortense,  who  was  a  nice-tempered,  affectionate 
child,  was  devoted  to  her  mother.  She  invariably  sobbed 
when  she  had  to  go  back  to  school,  that  dreaded  school  at 
Passy  under  Madame  Campan's  Argus  eye.  Madame 
Campan,  who  had  had  a  minor  post  at  the  court  of  Marie- 
Antoinette,  was  an  authority  on  deportment  and  social 
matters.  The  very  best  young  ladies  passed  through  her 
hands.  No  doubt  kind  M.  Barras  paid  Hortense's  fees. 
Josephine  could  not  have  squeezed  them  out  of  her  choco- 
late-box. As  we  have  said  before,  Josephine  had  a  sweet 
way  of  accepting  presents.  The  return  she  made  her 
friends  no  doubt  amply  repaid  them  for  their  generosity. 

The  sun  was  shining  into  the  widow's  charming  rooms 
— touching  up  the  green-and-white  walls  of  her  dressing- 
room  and  incidentally  her  nut-brown  hair.  Madame  was 
seated  at  her  dressing-table — a  little  gem  of  its  kind, 
in  painted  satinwood.  She  was  looking  earnestly  at  her 
reflection  in  the  silver-framed  mirror.  Josephine  had  had 
quite  an  experience  that  morning.  For  the  first  time 
she  had  had  her  hair  dressed  by  M.  Duplon,  a  promising 
young  artist,  warmly  recommended  by  Madame  Tallien. 
"He  is  a  treasure,"  said  Terezia.  "Do  try  him.  I  am 

274 


LOVE  273 

sure  you  will  be  delighted  with  him."  "Is  he  expensive?'* 
asked  Josephine,  who  occasionally  remembered  her  poverty. 
Tere/ia  had  shrugged  her  matchless  shoulders.  "Ask  him," 
she'd  said. 

Josephine  did — for  a  wonder.  She  was  very  pleased 
with  her  appearance.  "Charming,  M.  Duplon.  What  do 
I  owe  you?" 

"We  will  come  to  terms  later,  madame,"  said  Duplon 
bowing.  "All  I  want  is  to  give  you  satisfaction."  Duplon 
smiled.  Duplon  was  conceited.  Duplon  was  an  artist. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Josephine.  "To-morrow  at  ten, 
please  .  .  ." 

Now,  looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  she  decided  she 
would  employ  him  always.  Poor  clumsy  old  Fizzlepate 
was  not  a  patch  on  him. 

Josephine's  kind  heart  was  really  full  of  delusions. 
There  is  Hortense,  a  dear  sweet  thing,  but  no  more  a 
baby  than  you  or  I.  There  is  Bonaparte,  whom  she  per- 
sisted in  considering  as  a  rather  foolish  young  man.  She 
called  him  "jumpy."  So  he  was,  worse  than  a  kangaroo, 
a  kangaroo  with  a  spotted  velvet  fur  coat — yellow  spots 
on  blue — that  is  to  say,  a  most  extraordinary  kangaroo. 
You  couldn't  call  Bonaparte  commonplace,  unless  you 
were  as  mad  as  a  hatter,  and  as  short-sighted  as  an  owl 
in  broad  daylight.  Madame's  poverty  was  also  so  very 
comfortably  concealed.  Of  course  there  is  the  story  of 
her  two  chemises — one  on  and  one  off — and  that  invalu- 
able Clementine  washing,  ironing,  patching  ...  it  sounds 
unbelievable  or  a  slovenly  state  of  things.  I  despise  a 
woman  who  lays  all  her  pennies  on  her  hats  and  goes  in 
"rags"  beneath.  Besides,  we  know  Madame  Josephine 
was  sensitive,  refined,  you  might  say  extravagant  all 
through.  If  I  had  time  I'd  go  to  Clementine  and  ask  her 
to  tell  me  the  truth. 

When  Josephine  came  out  of  prison  M.  Barras  had 
paid  the  fiddler,  which  is  a  homely  expression,  meaning 
the  kind  gentleman  kept  her  ''until  her  affairs  were  regu- 
lated." Why!  there's  more  in  a  phrase  than  we  can  pos- 


276  LOVE 

sibly  say  or  even  understand.  The  proudest  stomach  can 
swallow  a  loan.  Josephine  was  not  very  proud.  But 
sweet — oh,  my  dears,  charming! 

"Mamma,"  said  Hortense,  at  the  window.  "There  is 
the  general  waiting  outside  the  gate." 

So  he  was,  leaning  on  the  little  iron  gate  and  looking 
at  the  little  plot  of  earth — under  the  snow — where,  pres- 
ently, the  crocuses  would  come  up  and  show  the  way  to  the 
hyacinths  and  the  early  tulips.  The  little  two-storied 
house — long  since  pulled  down  to  give  place  to  modern 
improvements — was  detached,  surrounded  by  a  wee  gar- 
den. It  was  originally  in  the  possession  of  Talma ;  rented 
by  Josephine,  and  soon  after  her  A^cond  marriage  it  was 
bought  by  General  Bonaparte  as  a  little  extra  wedding- 
present  for  his  bride.  At  that  time  he  would  have  thought 
nothing  of  giving  her  the  world,  if  it  had  been  in  his 
power  to  do  so.  And — greedy  little  woman — she  would 
have  thought  nothing  of  taking  it.  "So  nice,"  she  would 
have  said  to  Terezia.  We  rather  fancy  Terezia  would 
have  been  very  much  annoyed.  People  who  make  "corners" 
in  anything  are  generally  looked  upon  as  robbers. 

"Why  doesn't  he  come  in?"  said  Josephine.  "It  must 
be  dreadfully  cold  outside.  What  has  he  got  on,  child?" 

"His  grey  coat,  mamma.  And  his  three-cornered  hat. 
He  is  looking  up  and  smiling." 

"Ridiculous  creature!  Clementine — where  are  you? 
Come  and  fasten  my  dress.  I  can't  manage  it.  Where  is 
my  scarf?  Oh,  dear,  where  do  all  my  things  get  to?" 

Clementine  hurried  into  the  room — the  picture  of  neat- 
ness in  her  clean  white  apron  over  her  colored  dress.  A 
little  cap  on  her  head — high-heeled  red  leather  shoes  and 
striped  green  stockings.  You'd  never  think  she'd  been 
sweeping  the  snow  off  the  front  steps,  dusting,  polishing — 
putting  every  bee  that  ever  lived  to  shame  by  her  indus- 
try. She  and  cook  between  them  ran  the  widow's  estab- 
lishment. 

"I  do  hope  we  will  have  a  good  lunch,"  said  Josephine, 
adding  a  touch  of  powder  to  her  throat. 


LOVE  277 

"There's  an  omelette,  ma'am,  and  a  lovely  vol-au-vent 
champignons,  and  stewed  pears  in  syrup 1 

"That  is  nice.     The  general  likes  pears." 

"He  never  sees  what  he  eats.  I  never  saw  such  a  gentle- 
man for  being " 

"Now  my  scarf,  and  I'm  ready.  There's  the  bell, 
Clementine.  Where  is  his  letter?  I  meant  to  put  it  away. 
I'll  read  it  when  I  have  time.  Hortense,  my  precious 
angel,  let  me  look  at  you.  Don't  say  you  have  grown 
out  of  your  new  frock!  It  is  most  disheartening  having 
children." 

Josephine  kissed  Hortense.  Hand  in  hand  they  went 
downstairs  into  the  drawing-room  to  receive  the  general. 
Josephine  wore  a  simple  little  woollen  dress  in  a  pretty 
grey  shade.  The  dress  was  nothing — the  scarf  was  every- 
thing! Wide,  long,  soft,  of  a  vivid  emerald-green,  em- 
broidered all  over — or  nearly  so — with  a  foaming  multi- 
colored Chinese  design  too  wonderful  for  words !  There 
were  birds  on  it  and  flowers — God  forbid  that  some  un- 
fortunate creature  had  sacrificed  her  eyesight  over  the 
business. 

Josephine  sat  down  on  the  music-bench,  in  a  very  grace- 
ful attitude,  the  scarf  floating  around  her.  Her  arms 
encircling  her  little  girl,  much  as  Madame  Lebrun  has 
painted  her  self-portrait  with  child. 

"Darling,"  said  Josephine,  "I  do  hope  he  will  be  in  a 
good  temper.  You'll  be  good,  won't  you?  Don't  spill 
on  the  clean  cloth,  if  you  can  help  it ;  and  you  must  wear 
your  feeder." 

"Yes,  mamma.     I  don't  want  to,  though." 

"Baby !"  Josephine  raised  a  warning  finger.  "If  you 
are  naughty,  you'll  go  back  to  school  to-morrow,  instead 
of  a  whole  extra  week  with  me.  Think  of  poor  dear 
Eugene  working  like  a  nigger- " 

The  general  bounded  up  the  stairs,  flung  open  the  door 
and  was  immediately  enveloped  in  Josephine's  smile. 

"So  nice  to  see  you,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  said  the  general  in  a  strangled 


278  LOVE 

voice.  Truth  to  tell  you,  he  had  utterly  forgotten  the 
existence  of  Hortense.  The  little  girl's  presence  was  a 
shock  to  him.  He  sat  down  awkwardly — on  the  repeated 
invitation  of  his  hostess — on  the  little  high-backed  sofa  by 
the  fireplace.  His  hair  looked  particularly  lank  and  un- 
brushed.  There  were  black  shadows  under  his  eyes  and 
dejection  in  his  voice  as  he  made  some  inarticulate  re- 
joinder to  the  widow's  remarks. 

"I  was  so  sorry  I  could  not  see  you  last  night." 

"Thank  you." 

"Hortense,  go  and  kiss  the  general.  You  are  great 
friends,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  general  mournfully. 

The  little  girl  approached  him  shyly.  Her  new  dress 
was  a  high-waisted  affair  in  checked  pink-and-white  silk. 
Her  beautiful  hair  was  tied  back  with  a  pink  ribbon  to 
match. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  general.  "I  hope  you  are 
quite  well." 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,  sir." 

Josephine  re-arranged  her  scarf. 

"We  were  afraid  of  mumps.  But  it  is  nothing.  I  am 
so  glad,"  she  said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Baby,  run  and  ask  Clementine  if  lunch 
isn't  soon  ready.  You  must  be  famished,  general." 

He  looked  at  her — sorrow,  reproach,  unutterable  long- 
ing in  his  eyes.  His  expression  merely  annoyed  her.  Of 
course,  she  was  in  for  a  "scene"  again. 

The  color  left  his  lips.  He  looked  almost  ugly,  sitting 
bolt  upright  on  the  sofa. 

"Bonaparte "  only  a  breath — only  a  gesture  of  in- 
finite forgiveness  and  comprehension.  Hortense's  feet 
ran  down  the  corridor.  .  .  . 

He  crossed  the  room  swiftly  to  her  side.  He  pulled 
her  up  from  her  seat  as  you'd  pull  up  a  daisy  without  the 
least  consideration.  He  embraced  her  fiercely.  "Joseph- 
ine ,  t  ,  Josephine!"  he  repeated  exultantly.  "I  could 


LOVE  279 

not  give  you  up.  I  lied  to  you  last  night.  I  love  you! 
I  love  you!"  His  hands  went  all  over  her  face,  slipped 
to  her  shoulders — fondled  her  arms.  She  bore  it  like  a 
heroine.  She  even  remembered  to  thank  him  for  the  letter 
which  she  had  not  read. 

"Why  do  you  doubt  your  little  Josephine?"  she  said. 
"Cruel  man." 

Their  lips  met.     "I've  been  in  hell,"  he  said. 

"Come  back  to  heaven,"  she  replied  demurely.  "Only 
do  take  care  of  my  hair.  It  has  got  to  last  all  day." 

He  kissed  her  rapturously,  giddy  with  delight.  Or  was 
it  want  of  food?  He  had  not  eaten  anything  for  twenty- 
four  hours. 

Josephine,  seizing  her  opportunity,  moved  gracefully  to 
the  polished  round  table  and  pretended  to  re-arrange  some 
red  tulips  in  a  cut  crystal  vase. 

"A  lovely  color,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  love  the  snow? 
White  and  red  go  so  well  together." 

"Madame  est  servie,"  said  Clementine,  from  the  door- 
way. 

They  sat  down  at  the  narrow  table,  Josephine  at  the 
top — with  her  back  to  the  light — the  general  and  Hor- 
tense  on  either  hand. 

It  was  not  what  you'd  call  a  pretty  table.  The  napery, 
though  white,  was  coarse.  The  china  thick.  Opposite 
the  general  stood  an  undecanted  bottle  of  wine.  Further 
down  the  table  was  a  yellow  jug  of  milk;  a  dish  of  apples ; 
a  big  butter-dish  with  the  butter  passed  through  a  mould 
representing  a  hare,  with  long  ears,  lying  down.  It  was 
Hortense's  special  privilege  to  get  the  ears.  Josephine 
spoilt  her  dreadfully.  Though  she  insisted  on  her  wear- 
ing her  feeder.  Hortense  blushed  rosy-red,  but  made  no 
further  protest.  The  general  unfolded  his  enormous  nap- 
kin— folded  like  a  priest's  mitre — and  laid  it  across  his 
knees. 

Clementine  handed  round  the  omelette. 

"Try  these  crayfish,"  said  Josephine,  pushing  across 
to  her  guest  one  of  the  several  little  plates  on  the  table. 


280  LOVE 

"And  radishes!  Isn't  that  a  treat  in  January?  Do  you 
know,  general,  that  to-morrow  is  Twelfth  Night?  Aren't 
you  excited?" 

"Very,"  he  said,  not  raising  his  eyes  from  his  plate. 

"You  are  eating  nothing,"  said  Josephine. 

He  looked  up,  startled,  laughed  and,  to  Hortense's 
astonishment,  made  two  bites  of  his  fish  cutlet.  In  the 
second  he  had  finished  his  plate  and  was  eating  up  his  roll 
as  if  famished. 

"What  will  it  bring  us?" 

"What?"    His  voice  was  as  a  boimWhell. 

She  lifted  her  scarf,  and  answered  in  the  same  mild 
voice :  "The  coming  year,  dear.  This  wonderful  year.  It 
is  going  to  be  wonderful." 

At  that  he  smiled — wholly  happy.  He  left  what  re- 
mained of  his  bread  alone  and  looked  at  her  ecstatically. 
Her  shawl  glowed  on  the  back  of  the  tall  mahogany  chair 
like  a  trail  of  light.  .  .  . 

"It  suits  you,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  in  her  turn.  "It  is  always  a  tiny  virtue  to 
do  credit  to  your  clothes,"  she  said. 

"Some  wine,  sir?"  said  Clementine  at  his  elbow. 

"Eh?"    He  looked  up  at  her  suspiciously. 

"Wine,  sir?" 

"Thank  you ;  a  little."  He  drank  his  glass  at  a  gulp. 
"Do  you  like  fairy-stories,  Hortense?"  he  asked,  leaning 
over  the  narrow  table. 

"Very  much,  citizen  general." 

"My  stories  always  end  happily.  Every  difficulty 
smoothed  away.  That  is  how  it  ought  to  be." 

"Of  course,"  said  Josephine,  helping  herself  to  the 
pudding. 

"  'Each  hero  is  a  pillar  of  darkness ;  the  sword  a  beam 
of  fire  in  his  hand.  The  field  echoes  from  wing  to  wing, 
as  a  hundred  hammers  that  rise  on  the  red  son  of  the 
furnace,'  "  he  quoted. 

Josephine  looked  at  Clementine — for  sympathy,  prob- 
ably. Was  there  ever  such  an  incomprehensible  man? 


LOVE  281 

"One  day  I'll  read  it  to  you " 

"Oh,  sir,  you  have  upset  the  gravy  on  the " 

"Don't  make  remarks,  Hortense,"  said  Josephine.  "In- 
stead of  telling  you  beautiful  stories,  the  general  will 
scold  you  for  being  a  rude  little  girl." 

He  smiled  at  Hortense,  a  very  reassuring  smile. 

"It  is  quite  the  other  way  about.  Once  and  for  always 
I  have  given  her  permission  to  keep  me  in  order." 

"If  I'm  not  afraid." 

"Afraid?  Afraid  of  me?"  He  clutched  the  edge  of  the 
table.  And  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  crumpled  the  cloth. 

"Not  really.     I  might  pretend." 

"We  all  pretend." 

Josephine  wiped  her  mouth.  She  was  not  listening, 
really.  Nor  did  she  mind  in  the  least  that  he  had  ruined 
the  cloth.  Nor  did  Clementine.  Though  she  would  have 
to  wash  it.  Clementine  was  devoted  to  the  "little  general." 
If  anyone  spoke  contemptuously  of  him  in  her  presence, 
she  very  nearly  boxed  their  ears.  Needless  to  say,  that 
astute  baker's  young  man  of  hers  was  a  warm  partisan  of 
the  general.  "There's  grit  in  him,"  he  said.  "And  more 
than  that,  talent."  Which  was  a  great  compliment. 

"We  are  all  capable  of  great  things  and  great  sacrifices," 
he  said. 

Hortense  blushed.  She  decided  she  would  give  Stella 
that  bit  of  muslin  for  her  doll's  petticoat.  Stella  was  the 
youngest  pupil  at  Madame  Campan's  elegant  school. 

"As  for  your  mother,"  he  said,  "I'll  stake  my  life  on 
her  happiness.  We'll  cover  her  in  jewels  and  in  lace — and 
in  love."  He  waved  his  hand.  "Enough  to  satisfy  any 
fairy  princess  that  ever  was." 

Josephine  gave  a  little  shiver  and  swept  her  shawl 
around  her.  "It  is  cold,  even  here.  When  you  speak  like 
that  you  frighten  me,  sir.  Isn't  it  naughty  to  promise 
what  you  know  you  can  never  perform?" 

He  laughed  boisterously.  "She  does  not  believe  in  us, 
Hortense!  Doesn't  believe  in  me!"  He  laid  his  hand  on 
Josephine's.  "My  all  in  all,"  he  whispered.  "If  I  do  go 


282  LOVE 

abroad — which  isn't  likely — I'll  be  fancying  that  you  are 
in  trouble  and  alone.  Whichever  way  it  works  it  is  for 
the  best." 

Josephine  didn't  see  it  in  that  light  at  all. 

"That  is  not  very  ambitious  of  you,  Bonaparte,"  she 
said.  "When  you  marry  you  must  think  of  the  bread  and 
butter." 

There  was  something  very  fascinating  in  Josephine's 
little  attempts  at  prudence.  You'd  think  from  her  man- 
ner that  she  spent  her  life  in  watching  the  family  pot 
boil.  That  she  got  up  every  morning  to  go  to  market. 
And  that  every  Saturday  regularly  she  added  to  her  little 
nest-egg,  saved  from  her  housekeeping  money,  against  a 
rainy  day. 

He  looked  at  her  reverently. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  "you  shall  do  exactly  as  you  please." 

Which  was  foolish  of  him.  Even  Josephine  thought 
that.  She  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Italian  command, 
the  coveted  Italian  command.  Only  last  night — or  the 
night  before,  was  it? — at  the  Bourriennes'  dinner,  Cam- 
baceres  had  told  her  it  was  a  big  golden  price  for  the  best 
boy.  Cambaceres  fancied  his  own  rather  ponderous  wit. 
However,  there  was  truth  in  what  he  said.  She  looked 
quite  gravely  at  Bonaparte.  Was  he  the  best  boy?  Or 
would  not  the  cleverest  boy  do  as  well? 

His  thoughts  had  travelled  leagues  away  from  the 
prosaic  lunch-table.  For  a  second  or  two  Josephine  did 
not  matter.  She  was  inconceivably  small,  overshadowed 
by  the  Alps,  lost  on  the  fertile  plains  of  Lombardy,  hid- 
den in  the  enthusiastic  crowds  at  Milan  .  .  .  for  two  sec- 
onds he  ruled  the  world  and  commanded  the  respect  of  men 
and  the  sanction  of  the  gods. 

No  wonder  even  she  respected  his  silence.  Confronted 
by  abnormal  forces  we  are  speechless. 

Haven't  we  said  before  that  all  that  happened  lay 
slipped  and  ready  in  his  mind,  each  in  its  tidy  pigeon-hole? 
We  believe  it.  ...  The  shell  of  man  is  dust — the  spirit 
of  him  eternal  flame.  There  is  something  inspiring  in  the 


LOVE  283 

idea — like  seeing  the  sun  through  the  clouds,  the  herald 
of  a  perfect  daj. 

Long  after  we  have  ceased  to  be, 
The  sun  will  light  in  hush  and  tree 
And  shine  unchanged. 

They  are  not  our  lines.  We  read  them  the  other  day, 
in  some  book  or  other.  We  quote  them,  with  apologies 
to  the  poet.  They  struck  us  at  the  time  as  not  only 
sincere  but  good  .  .  .  and  true. 

Though  a  million  footsteps  have  ascended  and  descended 
the  same  track,  there  is  always  some  stone  waiting  to  be 
discovered. 

Josephine's  fingers  traced  a  pattern  on  her  coarse  home- 
spun cloth. 

"If  you  are  ready,  general,  let  us  go  into  the  next 
room." 

He  assured  her  gravely,  "I  am  quite  ready." 

Watch  her  passing  through  the  folding-doors — swaying 
as  a  flower  sways  to  the  wind — and  admire  her  grace.  She 
has  not  much  imagination.  She  does  not  appreciate  the 
general  half  as  much  as  he  deserves.  In  her  heart  of 
hearts  she  is  a  little  frightened  of  him. 

On  the  polished  table,  resting  against  the  base  of  the 
crystal  vase  of  tulips,  Clementine  had  placed  a  note. 

"From  Citoyen  Barras,"  said  Josephine.  "I  wonder 
why  he  is  writing  to  me?" 

The  general's  mouth  twitched.  A  fool's  paradise — ex- 
clusive to  lovers — has  many  doors.  He  suffered  agonies 
of  jealousy  as  his  darling  leisurely  broke  the  seal  and  read 
the  contents  of  her  letter. 

He  sat  down  and  waited,  Hortense,  at  a  signal  from 
Clementine,  had  been  admitted  into  the  pantry — her 
paradise. 

"Leave  'em  alone,"  said  Clementine. 

"May  I  wash  the  cups?" 

"If  you  are  very  careful.  .  .  ." 


284  LOVE 

Josephine  came  across  to  the  general.  She  bent  down 
and  pinched  his  ear,  in  imitation  of  a  mannerism  of  his 
when  pleased. 

"No — I  don't  want  a  kiss.  I  want  to  know  your  mind. 
Do  you  still  want  the  Italian  command?  Answer  me, 
sir,  yes  or  no?" 

She  stood  on  tiptoe,  waving  the  open  letter  over  her 
head. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  deserve  it?" 

"Josephine!" 

"You  are  not  half  excited  enough." 

She  laughed  and  handed  him  the  letter.  "Read  it," 
she  said.  "Oh,  you  lucky,  lucky  man!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MBARRAS'  letter  was  a  masterpiece  of  brevity. 
•  "Italy  is  his,"  he  wrote.  Two  initials  scrawled  in 
the  left-hand  corner,  and  the  date. 

"When  do  you  start?"  said  Josephine  eagerly.  "You 
have  got  to  thank  me,  sir,  for  much." 

His  face  was  a  mask,  colder  than  the  air  outside.  It 
damped  her  joy  pretty  considerably. 

"You'll  go  round  the  first  thing  this  afternoon  to  the 
Luxembourg  and  talk  it  over." 

"T"j&/"  he  said.     "I  am  glad  it  amuses  you,  madam." 

He  was  bitterly  disappointed.  He  knew  the  negative 
value  of  loose  statements.  Barras'  letter  was  quite  un- 
official. Probably  it  had  been  penned  after  a  good  dinner 
— or  very  likely  after  a  successful  interview  with  Madame 
Tallien.  Sometimes  the  source  is  very  far  from  the  spring. 

"No  matter,  Josephine.  I  thank  you.  I  thank  you 
from  my  heart,  darling." 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "If  there  is  anything  on  earth  I  hate, 
it  is  politics !  Why  do  people  fight  at  all?  I  see  no  reason 
why  you  should  go  to  Italy  and  kill  people,  or  very  prob- 
ably get  killed  yourself." 

His  lip  trembled.  "Then,  madam,  you  will  be  able  to 
speak  of  your  'poor  dear  Napoleon,'  who  was  foolish 
enough  to  believe  in  you  .  .  .  and  other  things." 

"Don't  be  cross !  It  must  mean  something.  Barras  is 
the  soul  of  precaution " 

"Not  with  women." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir." 

"Nothing." 

"It  isn't  polite." 

They  sat  opposite  each  other  in  chilly  silence.  True, 

285 


286  LOVE 

his  nerves  were  on  edge.  His  jealousy  quite  overcame  his 
disappointment.  No  doubt  "poor  dear  Alexandra" — the 
gentle  widow's  invariable  description  of  her  late  husband 
— had  had  to  put  up  with  much.  .  .  . 

"Italy  or  no  Italy,  you  have  got  to  marry  me,"  he  said. 

"Your  tone  offends  me,  sir." 

"I  mean  it,  madam." 

"My  dear  general,  I  do  wish  occasionally  you  would 
remember  your  manners." 

When  he  left  the  house  it  was  under  the  ban  of  her  dis- 
pleasure. As  a  parting  shot  she  told  him  she  was  going 
to  the  Talliens'.  "Terezia  is  such  a  darling  and  my  very 
best  friend." 

He  looked  at  her  mournfully. 

She  wrapped  her  green  scarf  tightly,  tightly  round  her 
figure  and  returned  his  glance  with  scorn. 

Waiting  is  ever  a  doleful  game;  the  more  impatience 
we  put  into  it  the  worse  it  is. 

We  can  fancy  how  he  spent  his  Twelfth  Night — alone, 
utterly  alone.  How  he  hated  all  mankind !  How  he  swore 
to  be  even  with  his  enemies  and  superior  to  his  friends! 

M.  B arras  did  not  follow  up  his  note  to  Josephine. 
"It  required  some  looking  into,"  he  said,  when  questioned 
on  the  subject.  He  was  expecting  reports  from  head- 
quarters. He  had  always  a  smile  and  excuse  for  the 
general. 

Paris  was  very  gay.  Lamertine,  who  owned  the  most 
popular  music-hall,  or  rather,  dancing  establishment,  in 
town,  must  have  made  a  good  thing  out  of  his  patrons. 

Madame  Tallien  seldom  failed  him.  She  had  her  own 
particular  box  and  was  a  great  attraction.  Sometimes 
she  allowed  Tallien  to  be  seen  in  her  company.  People 
remarked  on  that  gentleman's  improved  appearance.  Both 
at  Lamertine's  and  elsewhere  his  good-humor  was  very 
noticeable.  He  was  always  laughing.  When  he  wasn't 
laughing  he  was  hinting  of  great  changes  in  the  immedi- 
ate future.  The  changes  affected  the  government,  not 


LOVE  287 

Lamertine,  whose  immensely  popular  balls  would  go  on 
just  as  usual,  three  nights  a  week.  As  at  Terezia's 
parties,  there  was  always  a  new  attraction  offered  the 
guests — with  the  difference  that  you  had  to  pay  for  it. 

Tallien  slipped  through  the  midnight  crowds,  in  a  suc- 
cession of  wonderful  coats,  creating  small  diversion.  Ke 
was  on  friendly  terms  with  aristocrats,  in  particular  with 
a  dark  smallish  man  who  called  himself  Vicomte  Tarre- 
dorosse,  presumably  as  assumed  as  his  manners.  He  could 
not  have  felt  affectionate  towards  the  man  of  Bordeaux! 

No  doubt  Tallien  was  busy  evolving  a  plot,  wherein 
he  hoped  General  Bonaparte  would  figure  largely.  He 
made  no  secret  of  his  dislike  of  him.  He  alluded  particu- 
larly to  him  as  that  "naughty  child."  He  even  informed 
the  government  that  if  they  did  not  look  out  they'd  re- 
gret the  general's  promotion.  "As  a  humble  instrument, 
gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  warn  you.  He's  up  to  mischief." 
They  only  laughed.  Which  is  the  best  way  of  taking 
anything  disagreeable. 

Dear  old  Paris !  Sometimes  we  shut  our  eyes  and  quite 
forget  that  we  are  ferreting  under  quite  a  presentable  pile 
of  years,  coaxing  the  spring  flowers  of  a  hundred  years 
ago  and  more  to  put  out  fresh  leaves  for  your  benefit.  It 
seems  like  yesterday  when  General  Street — sitting  loosely 
in  his  saddle — rode  round  the  town,  on  his  disreputable 
old  horse,  to  inspect  his  different  posts  and  units.  He 
was  a  very  thorough  young  man.  Ask  Josephine.  Ask 
the  Directoire.  Or  only  go  to  nice  Captain  Junot,  who 
served  under  him  at  Toulon,  and  who  idolizes  his  superior 
officer.  Junot  has  no  end  of  an  opinion  of  Bonaparte. 
It  would  be  amusing  if  that  fool  Tallien  tried  to  inveigle 
him  into  his  web  which  he  was  busily,  busily — and  oh  so 
clumsily — spinning  for  the  undoing  of  a  "naughty  child." 
A  child,  by  the  way,  who  stood  in  his  way.  How  could 
Tallien  get  on  when  Bonaparte  blocked  the  way? 

"Opportunity !     Opportunity !" 

March  was  busy  getting  her  coming-out  dress  ready — 
about  the  last  week  in  February,  we  fancy — and  every- 


288  LOVE 

body  in  town,  from  the  lowliest  sparrow  to  the  greatest 
man  in  Paris,  had  the  same  incantation  on  their  lips. 

Who  was  the  greatest  man?  M.  B arras,  dispensing 
really  princely  hospitality  at  the  Luxembourg — the  nom- 
inal head  of  the  (rotten)  government,  or  the  (temporary) 
idol  of  the  little  man  in  the  street,  Bonaparte? 

The  general's  importunity,  nay,  his  microscopic  atten- 
tion to  details  (far  better  left  alone)  made  him  a  holy 
terror  to  his  superiors.  If  you  poke  your  head  down  a 
drain  you  have  only  yourself  to  blame  if  you  get  a  head- 
ache. He  poked.  Headache  or  no  headache,  he  poked. 
And  he  invariably  rose  to  the  surface  with  a  fresh  proof 
of  inefficiency  somewhere.  Public  scandal  is  best  covered 
up  with  a  fair  white  cloth. 

At  times  even  Josephine  complained. 

"Darling,"  she  said.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  interfere. 
Is  it  necessary?" 

Like  most  lovers,  they  had  fallen  out  and  fallen  in 
several  times  during  the  past  months.  Still,  he  was  push- 
ing on  their  marriage  preparations.  And  she  was  getting 
new  clothes.  They  were  really  only  waiting  for  a  little 
thing. 

I  don't  say  at  times  Josephine,  growing  sick  of  it  all— 
the  inconceivable  dilatoriness  of  officialdom — didn't  pro- 
pose a  change  of  plans. 

"Give  it  up,"  she  said  to  Bonaparte.  "Send  in  your 
papers — you  have  done  it  before — and  leave  the  army. 
Bribe  fortune  in  another  direction.  M.  Ouvrad  told  me 
yesterday  that  champagne  growers  made  all  the  money. 
I'll  recommend  the  wine." 

He  kissed  her  fondly,  being  in  one  of  his  affectionate, 
slightly  despondent  moods.  He  said  it  sounded  a  good 
thing,  and  that  he'd  think  it  over.  The  crocuses  in  the 
widow's  garden  were  in  their  beauty. 

Then  it  happened. 

Clementine  carried  in  another  note  from  M.  Barras. 
Josephine,  in  very  much  the  same  voice  as  before,  ex- 
pressed her  astonishment  at  her  unusual  correspondent. 


LOVE  289 

"Whatever  can  he  be  writing  to  me  for?" 

The  little  general,  kicking  his  (comparatively)  idle 
heels  together,  sitting  on  Josephine's  little  brocade-and- 
gilt  sofa,  hadn't  an  idea. 

She'll  read  you  the  letter.  It  finally  clinched  their 
case.  After  that  Josephine  could  no  longer  decently  defer 
the  date  of  their  marriage;  in  fact,  she  had  to  hurry  it 
forward.  There  were  a  thousand  things  to  be  done,  she 
said.  And  she  kissed  her  general  with  genuine  pleasure. 
"There'll  be  settlements  and  things." 

She  stopped.  Bonaparte  didn't  look  as  if  he  had  very 
oiuch  to  settle  on  anyone  ...  he  didn't  even  look  pleased ! 

Josephine  stamped  her  little  foot. 

"Listen,"  she  said. 

"  'Je  crois,  madame,  qu'il  vous  serait  agreable  d'ap- 
prendre  au  General  Bonaparte  que  la  Directoire,  en 
recompense  des  services  qu'il  a  rendus  a  la  patrie,  et  no- 
tament  en  Vendemiaire  dernier,  1'a  investi  du  commande- 
ment  supreme  de  1'Armee  d'ltalie  dans  sa  seance  de  ce 
matin,  23  fevrier,  1796. 

"'PAUL  BARRAS.'" 

Josephine  sighed.  "That's  all  en  regie.  Say  you  are 
pleased!" 

"Pleased!"  he  faltered.    "That's  not  the  word." 

"Never  mind  what  it  is,  as  long  as  we  are  happy."  She 
laid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  .  .  .  Can't  you  see  them? 

Of  course  it  was  impossible,  but  it  struck  Josephine  as 
if  her  little  general  had  aged.  Just  as  a  fairy  prince — if 
they  ever  do  grow  older — ages  between  two  paragraphs 
in  a  book.  It  all  lies  in  the  stroke  of  a  pen. 

He  controlled  himself — fortunately  Josephine's  crystal 
chandelier  no  longer  did  funny  things  up  in  the  ceiling — 
not  so  much  as  a  crystal  drop  trembled  .  .  .  nor  his  voice. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  he  said. 

"My  little  Napoleon,  I  love  you.     Kiss  me." 

What  lover  could  resist  such  an  invitation?     Not  he. 


290  LOVE 

He  poured  into  her  ear — she  kept  her  face  a  shade  averted 
— an  avowal  as  passionate  and  joyful  as  she  had  ever 
heard  from  him. 

She  took  his  wild  talk  very  happily.  He  touched  her 
Creole  fancy,  which  delighted  in  warm  colors ;  he  touched 
her  curiosity;  he  showered  on  her  promises — delightful 
promises.  She  turned  her  face  round  and  looked  up  at 
him,  as  modestly  as  a  snowdrop  looks  down  at  the  briers — 
she  kissed  his  mouth  as  a  butterfly  settles  on  a  rose-leaf. 
To  him  each  gentle  caress  was  as  devastating  fire.  It  was 
joy  akin  to  pain. 

"We  will  have  a  long  honeymoon,  dear,"  she  said,  after 
they  had  settled  the  date.  (Little  impostor!  She  knew 
very  well  he  could  not  afford  it ;  on  the  war-path  generals 
don't  wait.)  "And  I'll  wear  all  my  new  clothes.  And 
you'll  say,  'Josephine,  you  are  more  beautiful  than  the 
morning  and  lovelier  than  the  night.'  And  you'll  quote 
yards  of  that  stupid  old  Ossian.  Yes,  you  will— 

The  hall  bell  rang. 

She  flew  out  of  his  arms. 

"Visitors!"  she  said.  "Whoever  can  it  be?  There's  a 
darling,  go  into  the  next  room.  I'll  get  rid  of  them  far 
more  quickly  if  I'm  alone." 

How  fortunate — just  when  she  wanted  him — it  was  the 
family  lawyer;  stiff,  upright,  unimpressionable  Roger- 
ideau  (such  a  delightful  name  to  pass  your  tongue  over!). 
Josephine  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  wel- 
comed him  charmingly. 

"Sit  down,  sir,  do.  You'll  be  more  comfortable  on  this 
sofa — out  of  the  draught."  (Also  out  of  sight  of  the 
morning-room  door,  with  the  general,  probably,  observing 
them  through  the  crack.  Anyhow,  he  would  hear  every 
word  they  said.) 

Fortune  flew  at  the  visitor's  correct  ankles. 

"He  means  nothing,"  said  the  widow,  sitting  down  side 
by  side  with  her  legal  adviser.  "Naughty,  bad  dog,  go 
away !" 

"Jap- jap!"  barked  Fortune. 


LOVE  291 

After  a  few  civilities  they  entered  into  business.  The 
lawyer  carried  an  impressive  black  leather  portfolio, 
Josephine  tapped  it  fearfully. 

"Is  it  full  of  secrets?"  she  asked. 

Maitre  Rogerideau  put  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  on 
his  nose  and  looked  at  her  severely. 

"You  are  about  to  commit  an  indiscretion,  ma'am." 

"No  scolding,  please!" 

"I  repeat  it,  madam.  General  Bonaparte  has  nothing 
to  offer  you.  His  worldly  prospects  are  ntt.  He  is  very 
young,  ambitious,  no  doubt,  but  a  nobody.  In  your  own 
interests,  in  the  interests  of  your  children,  in  the  memory 
01  my  late  client  and  dear  friend,  the  Vicomte  de  Beau- 
harnais,  I  earnestly  beg  of  you  to  send  that  young  man 
packing  before  it  is  too  late " 

Something  in  the  next  room  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 
She  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips. 

"I  couldn't,  really  I  couldn't.    He  loves  me,  sir " 

"Fiddlesticks !     What's  that?" 

"Probably  my  maid,  tidying  my  drawers." 

"Good  heavens,  ma'am !  A  woman  with  your  looks  and 
your  position  could  marry  anyone!" 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"If  this  marriage  takes  place,  I  wash  my  hands  of  you. 
What  are  you  going  to  live  on — eh?" 

"Fame,"  said  the  widow  faintly. 

"Eh?" 

She  repeated  her  absurd  statement.  "Why  not?"  she 
said.  "More  extraordinary  things  have  happened." 

"Jap- jap!"  barked  Fortune  from  under  the  piano. 

"He's  jealous,  poor  darling.  Dear  Maitre  Rogerideau, 
don't  be  unkind.  It  is  fate.  I  am  sure  it  is  fate.  Besides 
General  Bonaparte  is  extremely  nice-looking.  You  must 
agree  he  has  got  a  good  nose?" 

"I  see  nothing  to  admire  in  him — and  I  don't  trust  him 
that  much  at  that !" 

Rogerideau  snapped  his  fingers.    Then  he  got  up.    "I've 


292  LOVE 

come  too  late.  Well,  well,  as  you  say,  it  is  fate,  and  an 
old  harridan  she  is  at  times." 

"You  make  me  nervous.    At  least,  wish  me  happiness." 

She  stood  up — curtseying. 

He  bowed. 

"Good  morning,  citoyemie.  Let  me  congratulate  you 
on  your  future  husband's  brilliant  prospects,  and  on  his 
present  possessions — a  sword  and  a  cloak.  A  nice  com- 
fortable little  outfit  to  marry  on !" 

Decidedly  pleased  with  his  own  wit,  Maitre  Rogerideau 
took  his  departure. 

She  ran  after  him,  calling  over  the  stairs,  "The  ninth 
of  March,  don't  forget!  You'll  make  the  necessary  ar- 
rangements ?" 

"I'll  see  that  he  can't  run  away,"  he  returned  grimly, 
clapping  his  beaver  hat  on  his  head. 

Such  a  to-do  when  she  came  back!  There  was  Bona- 
parte in  the  drawing-room,  dancing  on  the  middle  of  the 
carpet  in  ungovernable  rage;  calling  poor  dear  Rogeri- 
deau— such  a  well-meaning  man — every  name  under  the 
sun. 

"Don't  be  idiotic,"  she  said.  "It  was  too  funny  for 
words.  I  thought  at  any  moment  you'd  dash  in  and  bump 
his  foolish  old  head  against  the  fender." 

She  curtseyed  profoundly. 

"Eavesdroppers  never  hear  any  good  of  themselves,"  she 
said.  "Come  along,  darling;  let's  go  and  have  ices  at 
Bonfreres.  I'll  be  ready  in  a  moment.  .  .  .  Clementine!" 

"I'll  come,"  he  said,  recovering  himself. 

"What  will  you  buy  me,  sir?  I  want — oh,  I  want  lots 
of  things.  A  carriage  and  pair,  a  string  of  pearls  and 
a  bunch  of  violets." 

She  stood  on  the  threshold  of  her  room,  smiling. 

He  pushed  back  his  hair  from  his  brow.  A  wonderful 
light  came  into  his  tired  eyes. 

"You  shall  have  them,  Josephine,"  he  said,  "even  if  I 
have  to  pawn  my  old  cloak  and  sword  to  buy  them." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

OH  dear,  oh  dear!  If  we  could  only  see  them  better. 
The  Rue  St.  Honore  is  crowded  this  gay  February 
afternoon.  Here's  a  family  party  blocking  our  way  on 
the  narrow  pavement,  gluing  their  noses  outside  the  win- 
dow of  a  bookseller's  shop.  Papa  is  pointing  at  a  large 
planche  representing  a  big  balloon,  attached  to  a  basket, 
inscribed  "La  Theloriere."  The  inventor  has  given  his 
masterpiece  his  own  name.  Everyone  in  Paris  was  highly 
amused  at  the  contrivance,  warranted  to  cross  the  Chan- 
nel like  a  bird  and  cause  utter  consternation  in  the  Eng- 
lish camp.  Who  had  ever  heard  of  war  in  the  air?  Pater- 
familias was  full  of  it.  The  children  gaped.  Mamma 
wanted  to  go  on.  Papa,  seizing  his  opportunity,  com- 
menced another  tale  of  wonder.  There  was  a  young  man 
in  Paris  at  that  very  moment,  a  Mr.  Fulton,  who  had 
fabricated  (on  paper)  a  steam-ship — "A  ship,  children, 
steering  against  the  wind,  without  sails."  "Come  on," 
said  mamma,  "and  don't  talk  such  nonsense!" 

You  might  say  that  they,  that  family  party,  however 
obstructive  to  our  view,  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  story. 
They  have.  Mamma  merely  voiced  the  conviction  of  the 
general,  newly  appointed  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
Italian  Expeditionary  Force.  He  didn't  believe  much  in 
Theloriere's  balloon,  and  he  had  snapped  his  agile  fingers 
in  a  rage  at  Mr.  Fulton's  humble  brown-paper  portfolio, 
containing  his  beloved  drawings.  "If  you'd  take  up  my  in- 
vention, citizen,"  he'd  said  to  General  Bonaparte — in  the 
fidgets — "you'd  soon  get  the  better  of  Lord  Nelson." 
"Ba-ah!"  said  the  general,  as  rudely  and  vulgarly  as  you 
please.  He  hated  being  interrupted  in  his  work,  and  he 
hated  a  fool.  He  considered  steam-power  in  connection 


294  LOVE 

with  ships  as  beyond  the  dreams  of  man.  Fancy,  now. 
Can  a  genius  be  short-sighted?  So  one  went  one  way  and 
the  other  the  other.  Tallien  got  hold  of  the  story  and  got 
an  introduction  to  Mr.  Fulton,  and  invited  him  to  a  party 
(you'll  hear),  merely  to  worry  his  born  enemy.  He  hated 
little  Bonaparte.  He  adored  his  superstition.  He  had 
also  heard  that  the  general  trembled  and  almost  went 
into  convulsions  at  a  certain  tune — an  "unlucky"  tune. 
He  ferreted  it  out,  out  of  Barras,  we  fancy.  Whereupon 
our  sprightly  man  went  to  his  favorite  hostelry,  The  Cow, 
and  invited  another  guest;  a  musician.  He  asked  him  as 
a  personal  favor,  some  time  or  other  during  the  festivities, 
to  perform  a  piece  of  music.  "Dear  friend,"  he  said,  "I'll 
select  it.  It's  easy,  quite  easy  to  play."  We  can  fancy 
Souci's  innocent  stare.  The  whole  thing  was  rather  a 
mystery. 

A  shaft  of  sunlight  creeps  up  the  narrow  street  and 
settles  in  her  russet  hair.  Josephine  is  waiting  outside 
the  modiste's  shop ;  her  young  man  has  gone  in  to  ask  the 
price  of  a  hat,  which  has  taken  her  fancy.  A  flashy 
young  saleswoman — a  hundred  years  haven't  altered  them, 
though  they've  worked  wonders  in  plate-glass — removes 
from  the  window  a  certain  creation,  chiefly  composed  of 
pink  tulle  and  white  lilac.  She,  Josephine,  wonders  what 
he  is  doing.  Presently  he  joins  her,  rather  breathless  and 
red  in  the  face.  "I've  bought  it,  darling,"  he  cries,  proud 
as  Lucifer,  tragedy  writ  plain  as  a  penny  in  his  eyes.  Is 
there  anything  more  tragic  than  a  frightfully  poor  young 
man  engaged  to  a  frightfully  extravagant  young  woman? 

"Let's  have  ices  at  Bonfrere's,"  she  says,  after  thank- 
ing him  charmingly — Josephine  always  took  a  new  hat 
very  nicely — waving  her  little  green  silk  bag. 

He  grips  his  thin  pocket-book  and  offers  her  his  arm, 
piloting  her  through  the  crowd.  People  turn  back  to 
look  at  them.  "What  a  pretty  woman !"  they  say.  "Who 
is  she?"  "The  Widow  Beauhamais,  and  that's  her 
fiance,  General  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  He  is  making  a 
brilliant  match."  A  thousand  fancies  spring  to  life.  We 


LOVE  295 

see  them,  we  hear  them,  we  follow  them  down  the  street, 
in  respectful  silence.  Their  humbleness  makes  them  one 
of  us,  this  couple  whs  couldn't  afford  a  carriage. 

They  had  their  ices.  He  only  played  with  his,  while 
she  talked  to  a  chance  acquaintance.  Bonfrere's  was  the 
fashionable  cake-shop  in  Paris,  1796.  "Au  revoir,  mon- 
sieur." "Au  revoir,  chere  madam."  As  humbly  as  they 
had  entered  the  shop  they  walked  out  again,  followed  by 
a  very  few  glances. 

The  beauty  of  the  day  has  gone.  Josephine  feels  tired. 
She  clings  to  the  general's  arm  for  support.  "I  wish  I 
had  a  carriage  of  my  own,"  she  murmurs  dejectedly.  Per- 
haps her  boots  pinch  her  feet? — they  look  remarkably 
small,  beneath  her  narrow  silk  skirt.  He  sighs ;  he  would 
so  willingly  have  given  her  all  the  chariots  in  paradise. 
It's  turned  dark  and  cold.  They  wait  at  the  crossing — he 
looking  daggers,  right  and  left.  Here's  a  fat  market- 
woman,  pushing  her  basket  into  Josephine's  back.  Joseph- 
ine gives  a  little  scream.  She  doesn't  like  being  hustled 
in  a  crowd.  The  traffic  is  quite  congested.  "You  must 
take  me  to  Lamertine's,"  she  says,  studying  with  interest  a 
huge  advertisement  on  a  covered  cart  telling  to  all  and 
sundry  that  Citoyen  Lamertine's  noted  dancing-saloon 
was  open  to  the  public  at  such-and-such  a  date.  Might 
have  been  the  ninth  of  March.  The  rooms  had  been  newly 
decorated  and  enlarged.  Suppers  were  guaranteed  first- 
class — served  in  the  private  boxes,  if  desired  (oh!  the 
prices!),  and  Citoyen  Lamertine  assured  the  public  that 
he  could  offer  them  the  best  band  in  Paris.  The  front  seat 
of  the  wagon  was  occupied  by  two  men  in  masks  and 
dominoes,  each  blowing  a  trumpet  (Lamertine's). 

He  crushed  her  arm.  "Lamertine's!"  he  laughed. 
"Lamertine's!"  A  world  of  derision  and  scorn  in  his 
strident  voice.  He  succeeded  in  making  her  angry.  His 
loudness  was  attracting  notice.  The  cart  had  moved  on, 
followed  by  a  rush  of  small  boys.  He  watched  his  chance 
of  piloting  her  across  the  street. 

"Come,  my  own." 


296  LOVE 

His  voice  was  melting,  pleading,  unutterably  humble 
...  he  had  nothing  to  offer  her  .  .  .  nothing — nothing. 
Do  dreams  ever  satisfy  a  woman?  They  weren't  her  own, 
either  ...  his  poor  chipped  dreams  cut  in  half  by  Lam- 
ertine's  vulgar  advertisement. 

"How  very  unfortunate!"  said  Josephine,  trying  to 
look  the  other  way. 

A  very  handsome  equipage  rolled  past.  One  lady  in- 
side, who  gave  our  poor  pedestrians  a  cold,  you  might 
say  haughty,  bow.  It  was  Madame  Tallien,  Madame 
Tallien  returning  from  a  party  at  the  Luxembourg,  in  a 
truly  wonderful  dress — her  hat  covered  with  yellow  bird- 
of-paradise  feathers,  waving  in  the  air  with  an  indescriba- 
ble effect.  They  quite  crushed  Josephine. 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?"  said  Josephine.  "It  was 
silly  of  you  to  buy  me  that  hideous  pink  hat.  I'm  sure 
I'll  never  put  it  on." 

For  once  in  his  life  he  was  quite  nonplussed. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

MARCH  the  ninth,  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety-six. 
I  wonder  if  he  realized  the  importance  of  the  date  ? 
If  he  trembled  when  he  got  out  of  bed,  that  cold,  bleak 
morning,  not  with  the  thought  of  her  but  under  the  weight 
of  coming  events?  Surely  his  brain  must  have  teemed 
with  ideas,  fancies,  delusions,  realities?  .  .  .  He'd  buy  her 
a  gold  coach  and  twelve  white  horses.  .  .  . 

He  ran  in  for  a  moment  to  kiss  her  as  she  sat  at  lunch, 
his  eyes  alight.  When  Bonaparte's  eyes  were  alight  they 
were  extraordinary.  Any  other  woman  would  have 
bounded  into  his  extended  arms  and  buried  her  face  on 
his  neck,  half  in  terror,  half  in  joy. 

"Do  eat  something,"  she  said,  wiping  her  mouth. 

"I  haven't  time,  darling." 

The  light  was  still  there,  the  light  of  great  expectation. 
He  had  half  a  mind  to  tell  her  of  her  gold  coach  and 
twelve  .  .  .  rattling  up  the  hill  ...  he  took  a  deep 
breath. 

"I'll  meet  you  at  the  town  hall  at  seven  sharp.  You 
won't  fail  me,  ma'am?" 

There  was  a  catch  in  his  voice. 

"You  know  you  like  tomatoes  and  macaroni." 

She  heard  the  front  door  slamming  violently,  and  sighed. 
Her  young  man  wanted  educating.  Was  there  ever  any- 
one so  jumpy? 

The  widow  continued  her  interrupted  meal  very  plac- 
idly. .  .  .  Thank  heaven,  she  thought  piously,  he  has 
his  metier.  Italy  was  a  long  way  off  from  Paris  .  .  .  he'd 
be  very  fatiguing  if  she  saw  much  of  him. 

Fortune  watched  her  from  his  cushion  on  the  window- 
seat.  Fortune  in  honor  of  the  day  was  decked  out  in  a 
huge  white  satin  favor. 

297 


298  LOVE 

"Poor  ducky  dear,"  said  Josephine.  She  spoke  to  For- 
tune, but  we  rather  fancy  she  meant  herself.  She  was 
doing  a  great  deal  for  the  sake  of  the  children.  Yet  she 
had  not  had  the  courage  to  tell  them  of  her  pending 
alliance  with  General  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Aunt  Fanny 
had  broken  it  to  them  as  gently  as  she  could.  Eugene 
had  been  thunderstruck.  He  had  never  conceived  a  suc- 
cessor to  his  father  possible.  Hortense  seemed  pleased. 
"He's  a  kind  man,"  she  said. 

He  had  always  treated  her  well,  and  pinched  her  ears 
on  several  occasions,  had  even  confided  in  her.  "Made- 
moiselle," he  had  said,  "I'm  nervous  of  your  mother's 
grand  friends."  Hortense  had  patted  his  hand.  "I 
wouldn't  mind  them,"  she  said;  "you  are  just  as  good, 
even  if  you  are  thin.  People  often  laugh  when  they  ought 
to  treat  you  with  respect."  "That's  true,"  he  had  an- 
swered, much  relieved. 

The  children  were  at  their  respective  schools.  "I  wish 
they  were  with  me,"  thought  their  mother  as  she  sat  over 
the  drawing-room  fire,  sipping  her  coffee,  and  feeling  very 
depressed  indeed.  She  kept  thinking  of  the  past,  and 
especially  of  her  prison  experiences.  What  a  truly  dread- 
ful time  she  had  gone  through — yet  she  had  survived. 
She  held  her  delicate  fingers  to  the  blaze.  The  general 
couldn't  be  worse.  Besides,  he  might  turn  out  a  treasure. 
He  had  his  good  points,  of  course. 

"Clementine,  are  you  there?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Clementine  stood  in  the  doorway  in  a  brand-new  dress— 
a  present  from  her  mistress — looking  very  cheerful  after 
all  her  hard  work.  In  honor  of  the  auspicious  occasion 
she  had  worked  prodigiously  during  the  past  week — 
scouring  floors,  washing  curtains,  'cleaning  silver  and 
brass.  The  little  house  looked  as  bright  as  a  new  pin. 
The  widow  had  lately  moved  from  her  old  apartment  into 
a  more  commodious  residence,  Rue  Chantereine,  No.  6. 

"What  did  I  do  with  my  memorandum-book?" 

Clementine  brought  her  a  little  brown  leather  volume. 


LOVE  299 

Josephine  turned  over  the  pages.  "Exactly,"  she  mur- 
mured; "exactly.  Rather  extraordinary,  you  know." 
She  shut  up  the  book.  "M.  Barras  is  fetching  me,  shortly 
before  seven." 

"I  hope  you'll  be  ready,  ma'am." 

Josephine  laughed. 

"It  would  do  the  general  good  if  I  kept  him  waiting  a 
little." 

The  front  door  bell  rang. 

"There's  Aunt  Fanny,"  said  the  widow.  "I'm  going 
to  keep  her  all  day — my  last  day  of  liberty,  helas!" 

Aunt  Fanny  wouldn't  allow  any  doleful  anticipations, 
or  even  reminiscences.  She  had  come  solely  to  cheer  her 
niece  and  keep  her  punctual.  It  would  never  do  to  keep 
the  general  waiting,  said  Aunt  Fanny. 

A  little  before  seven  the  ladies  were  seated  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, expecting  M.  Barras.  Aunt  Fanny  was  not 
accompanying  her  niece  to  the  town  hall.  It  was  better 
so.  In  formal  matters  ladies  were  best  out  of  it,  she  said. 
Josephine  would  have  the  support  of  her  two  witnesses. 
The  marriage  act  was  of  the  briefest  character.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  it  would  all  be  over,  and  poor  dear 
Alexandre  would  have  irrevocably  to  step  as  it  were  into 
the  back  drawing-room. 

Josephine,  already  cloaked,  with  a  little  quilted  satin 
hood  covering  her  head,  was  seated  at  her  infinitesimal 
writing-bureau,  idly  tracing  some  letters  on  a  sheet  of 
paper. 

"Josephine,  what  are  you  doing?  Never  write  down 
your  new  name  before  it  is  actually  yours.  It  is  most 
unlucky." 

"I  was  only  trying  to  see  how  it  would  look.  I'll  sign 
myself  Josephine  Pagerie-Bonaparte.  Bonaparte  alone 
looks  so  very  commonplace." 

"I  wouldn't  say  that." 

Josephine  tore  up  the  little  sheet  of  tinted  notepaper. 
"We  all  know  your  opinion  of  the  general.  He's  simply 
perfect — perfect !" 


300  LOVE 

She  stood  up,  her  shimmering  circular  mantle  falling  in 
heavy  folds  round  her  slight  figure.  "I  wish  you  were 
coming  with  me." 

"I've  been  expressly  told  to  stay  at  home." 

Josephine  nodded.  "He  has  his  ideas,  ce  Bonaparte. 
I  wonder  why." 

"There's  the  carriage,  child." 

"There's  no  hurry,"  said  Josephine.  "I  don't  feel  a 
bit  excited." 

Aunt  Fanny  was  seated  on  the  big  gilt  sofa.  You  re- 
member the  one  bargain  of  Josephine's  life?  She  was 
wearing  a  flowered  green  silk  brocade,  and  carried  her 
best  bag.  Aunt  Fanny  felt  the  significance  of  the  occa- 
sion. 

Clementine  showed  M.  Barras  upstairs.  He  stood  in 
the  doorway,  bowing  to  the  ladies.  He  also,  in  honor 
tof  the  day,  very  much  got  up.  The  ladies  curtseyed. 

"Bon  Dieu!"  said  Josephine,  with  charming  gaiety. 
"How  beautiful  we  look!"  She  shook  her  curls  under 
her  quilted  hood.  "All  wasted.  He  won't  give  us  a 
glance." 

Fortune,  in  his  ridiculous  white  satin  bow,  flew  across 
the  room  towards  M.  Barras,  snapping  at  his  legs.  He 
knew  something  untoward  was  brewing,  and  like  all  rather 
selfish  dogs  he  hated  changes. 

Josephine  picked  him  up  in  her  arms  and  fondled  his 
ugly,  whimpering  head  against  her  soft  breast. 

"You  precious  beauty,"  she  cooed.  "Take  care  of 
Aunt  Fanny,  darling.  Make  her  stay  to  supper.  .  .  . 
Clementine!" 

"Yes,  ma'am?" 

"Be  sure  you  give  us  hot  soup  and  plenty  to  eat.  The 
general  will  be  famished." 

"Madam,"  said  M.  Barras,  offering  Josephine  his  arm. 

She  shook  her  head  and  ran  past  him,  fleet  as  the  wind, 
on  her  little  sandalled  feet,  towards  her  bridegroom. 

Aunt  Fanny  went  to  the  window  to  see  them  start. 
First  Josephine  stepped  into  the  carriage,  followed  by 


LOVE  301 

M.  Barras — then  M.  Tallicn,  with  his  mouth  at  its  widest 
capacity.  He  looked  like  a  walking  advertisement  of  a 
disagreeable  impression. 

The  footman  slammed-to  the  coach  door  and  mounted 
to  his  seat  on  the  box.  M.  Barras'  coachman  whipped 
up  his  heavy  Flemish  mares  and  off  they  drove  into  the 
gloaming. 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  returned  to  her  seat  on  the 
gilt  sofa — she  would  never  dream  of  sitting  in  Josephine's 
pink  velvet  chair — she  considered  it  the  acme  of  discom- 
fort— and  fell  a-musing,  as  women  will  do  where  wed- 
dings are  concerned.  Fortune,  much  subdued,  sniffed  at 
her  skirts,  wagging  his  stump  of  a  tail.  Aunt  Fanny 
opened  her  reticule  and  abstracted  a  huge  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. "God  bless  her!"  she  said. 

The  wood  fire  burned  with  a  gentle  glow.  Fortune 
curled  himself  up  in  the  pink  velvet  chair.  On  the  big 
round  table,  near  the  shaded  lamp,  stood  a  bowl  of  hya- 
cinths. Josephine  had  left  her  needlework  on  the  table 
— a  strip  of  multi-colored  embroidery  which  had  occu- 
pied her  spare  moments  the  better  part  of  two  years. 
The  two  years  which  had  elapsed  since  the  fall  of  Robes- 
pierre. Doesn't  time  fly?  Two  years,  two  years,  thought 
Aunt  Fanny — it  might  be  yesterday. 

She  sighed.  A  thousand  happy  memories  crowded 
around  her  and  touched  her  as  gently  as  the  timid  hands 
of  children.  .  .  .  There  she  sat,  erect  and  stiff  on  the  old 
gilt  sofa,  her  green  taffeta  robe,  brocaded  with  yellow 
tulips,  flowing  about  her  in  ample  folds.  Her  thin  fingers 
laden  with  her  mother's  rings. 

During  the  short  drive  to  the  town  hall,  M.  Barras, 
seated  by  her  side,  held  Josephine's  hand  tightly  in  his 
own.  He  couldn't  help  feeling  for  her.  He  whispered 
into  her  ear  words  which  M.  Tallien,  on  the  opposite  seat, 
did  his  very  best  to  catch.  It  bothered  him  not  to  hear 
what  they  were  saying.  Once  or  twice,  with  a  loud  laugh, 
he  hinted  at  some  surprise  in  store  for  the  lady.  "Oh," 


302  LOVE 

said  Josephine,  without  listening.  "Paul,  Paul,"  she 
whispered,  "can't  you  get  me  out  of  it?  He'll  eat  me  out 
of  sheer  love.  There'll  be  nothing  left  of  poor  little 
Josephine." 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Tallien,  catching  a  word  here  and 
there.  "We'll  keep  his  attention  engaged.  There  is 
nothing  like  worrying  a  man  to  keep  him  sober.  Gee  up ! 
Gee  up !" 

The  carriage  came  to  a  standstill.  Tallien  clambered 
down  heavily,  in  a  rage  with  M.  Barras.  He,  Barras, 
treated  him  as  dirt  beneath  his  feet.  He,  Tallien,  was  the 
husband  of  the  bride's  best  friend — eh?  "Come  along, 
come  along,"  he  said  facetiously,  offering  Josephine  his 
arm.  She  took  M.  Barras'. 

They  went  up  an  endless  flight  of  stairs,  and,  through 
swing  doors,  entered  a  gloomy  and  very  badly  lit  vesti- 
bule. 

"This  way,"  said  Tallien,  advancing  down  a  stone  pas- 
sage and  flinging  open  the  door  of  a  vast  and  practically 
empty  room;  it  was  furnished  with  a  couple  of  long, 
narrow  tables  and  a  few  wooden  chairs  and  benches.  The 
windows  were  barred  and  the  walls  whitewashed.  A  couple 
of  dim  oil  lamps  lit  the  apartment. 

Josephine  clung  to  M.  Barras,  looking  around  her  with 
wondering  eyes. 

"What  a  gloomy  place!"  she  said.  "Let  us  find  the 
general." 

A  clerk  came  forward. 

"The  general  has  not  arrived,"  he  said. 

"How  lucky !"  said  Josephine  sweetly.  "We  must  never 
tell  him  we  were  late."  The  great  round  clock — between 
the  tall,  uncurtained  windows,  pointed  to  a  quarter  past 
seven.  "We'll  scold  him  dreadfully  for  not  keeping  to- 
his  appointment.  And  such  an  important  one." 

"Never  mind,  ma'am,"  said  Tallien,  drawing  forward 
a  chair.  "You  can  always  depend  on  Tallien.  I  thought 
of  such  an  eventuality.  I've  even  provided  against  it. 
What  do  you  prefer,  ma'am — music  or  invention?" 


LOVE  303 

Josephine  sat  down  on  the  hard  cane  chair,  resting  her 
elbows  on  the  deal  table. 

"Invention,  I  think,  if  it  is  amusing." 

M.  Barras,  followed  by  the  clerk,  had  gone  off  in  search 
of  the  bridegroom.  He  might  have  gone  into  a  wrong 
department.  The  municipal  building  was  very  large. 
"Idiot !"  he  muttered  vexedly,  not  at  all  under  his  breath. 
We  rather  fancy  M.  Barras  was  pleased  to  find  the  hero 
of  the  riots  tripping.  If  he  is  not  our  idol  we  don't  care 
if  he's  chipped.  That's  human  nature — unspeakably 
selfish. 

In  the  meanwhile  Tallien  exerted  himself  to  amuse  the 
lady.  He  introduced  Mr.  Fulton — whom  he  fished  from 
the  shadows  of  the  great  room,  with  a  thousand  graceful 
flourishes.  At  least,  he  thought  them  inimitable. 

"He-he!  ma'am,"  he  said,  "I  assure  you  the  gentleman 
in  front  of  you  (look  at  her,"  sotto  voce,  "isn't  she  a 
peach?)  is  the  cleverest  inventor  of  the  age — a  fabulous 
creature.  Isn't  that  so,  sir?  Explain  yourself,  sir.  Get- 
ting up  steam,  ma'am — he-he-he!" 

Tallien's  great  laugh  soared  to  the  dirty  rafters  above. 
He  had  seated  himself  on  the  corner  of  the  table,  dangling 
his  legs.  It  was  an  unceremonious  attitude,  studiously 
maintained  to  impress  the  lady  and  "that  crack-brained 
ass,"  Fulton,  that  he  was  a  very  important  personage 
indeed.  He  could  do  what  he  liked,  Tallien.  He  could 
annoy  Bonaparte.  He  could  tickle  Josephine.  Why  not 
— eh?  Why  not!  he  mouthed. 

"Pick  a  daisy,  love.  He  loves  me  a  little,  not  at  all, 
passionately.  Bonaparte,  ma'am,  loves  this  little  brave 
creature  who  is  so  sure  of  himself.  One  day  he'll  rule  the 
ocean.  Honor  bright,  he'll  keep  the  English  at  bay  at 
Botany  Bay — ha!  ha!  Such  a  puzzle!" 

Tallien  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  large  red  silk  hand- 
kerchief and  blew  his  nose  like  the  crack  o'  doom. 

Josephine  smiled  at  the  stranger. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  sir,"  she  said  prettily,  looking  at 
the  clock. 


304*  LOVE 

"Allow  me  to  show  you  my  drawings,  madam.'* 

"Another  time,  good  man.  Ask  the  lady  to  press  your 
suit  on  her  little — ahem,  on  her  great  general.  That's 
why  I  have  brought  you.  Always  like  to  do  a  kind  action. 
He'll  jump  at  you.  To-night  of  all  nights!  What  an 
omen!  What  a  vision!  Allow  me  to  explain.  There's  a 
ship,  ma'am — two  wheels — exactly — a  black  funnel,  belch- 
ing steam " 

"Smoke,  sir." 

"Exactly.  We  must  not  forget  the  smoke.  The  smoke 
is  most  important.  And  off  we  go  in  clouds  of  glory." 

"I  see,"  said  Josephine. 

"It's  as  simple  as  your  kettle  boiling  on  the  kitchen 
fire.  You  have  seen  it,  madam." 

"I  never  go  into  the  kitchen,"  said  Josephine. 

Mr.  Fulton  looked  rather  nonplussed.  He  re- tied  the 
strings  of  his  shabby  portfolio. 

"It's  a  vastly  natty  idea,"  said  Tallien.  "Why  don't 
you  offer  it  to  the  English?" 

"I  have." 

"Ah!" 

"They  have  refused  it." 

"Given  faith "  Tallien  slid  off  the  table.  "Found 

the  truant,  sir?"  he  said  to  M.  Barras.  "No?  Not  come 
yet?  Wicked  young  man!  We'll  punish  him." 

Josephine  looked  annoyed. 

"Too  bad  of  the  general,"  she  said. 

Barras  waved  Mr.  Fulton  aside.  "I  have  an  important 
engagement  at  eight  o'clock,"  he  said. 

"I  can  wait.  I  can  always  wait,"  said  Tallien.  His 
stock  speech,  you  remember. 

"I'll  stay  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  then  I'll  go  home," 
said  Madame  de  Beauharnais  with  dignity  and  decision. 

Time  dragged  heavily.  Fulton  retreated  to  the  shad- 
ows. He  sat  down  dejectedly  by  the  side  of  a  stout  man, 
who  carried  a  violin. 

"What  have  we  been  brought  for?"  he  whispered  to  his 
neighbor. 


LOVE  305 

The  man  didn't  answer.    He  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

Ten  minutes  later  General  Bonaparte  dashed  into  the 
room,  followed  by  his  supporters,  M.  Lamarrois  and  M. 
Calmalet.  His  face  was  glistening,  damp  with  perspira- 
tion. His  hair,  tangled  and  matted,  fell  over  his  brow. 
His  eyes  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  blind  man — expression- 
less. 

He  never  noticed  Madame  de  Beauharnais'  coldness, 
M.  Barras5  stiffness,  M.  Tallien's  haw-haw.  As  to  the 
two  men  purposely  introduced  to  annoy  him,  he  never 
saw  them.  Tallien's  face  looked  like  the  face  of  a  doll, 
flattened  by  a  human  heel.  He  was  cruelly  disappointed, 
Tallien.  Behind  Bonaparte's  back  (not  even  "dressed" 
for  his  wedding — he  wore  the  same  shabby  uniform  he  had 
put  on  that  morning.  His  boots  were  splashed.  Not  a 
favor  in  his  buttonhole,  eh?)  he  made  violent  faces  to 
the  fat  man  in  the  corner — asleep.  He  would  have  liked 
to  have  shaken  him  into  helL  The  swiny  devil!  "Play!" 
he  mouthed.  "Play !"  The  damned  tune  would  make  the 
rats  dance  .  .  .  that  rat,  Bonaparte.  .  .  . 

"Come  on,"  said  the  general  brusquely,  taking  Joseph- 
ine under  the  arm.  Not  a  word  of  excuse,  not  a  glance 
of  contrition.  "The  clerk  is  waiting  in  the  office." 

Out  he  marched,  number  one,  keeping  a  firm  hold  of 
her.  In  the  gloomy  corridor  he  put  his  cold  mouth  to 
her  ear.  "I  love  you,"  he  whispered  ecstatically. 

"I'm  so  tired,"  she  said,  gently  reproving. 

Behind  them  came  M.  Barras,  tall,  stately,  very  well 
satisfied  with  himself.  He  was  wearing  a  blue  cloth  cape, 
swung  on  his  broad  shoulders.  His  coat  was  a  glitter  of 
gold  lace. 

Tallien,  still  mouthing,  brought  up  the  rear.  He  kept 
folding  and  unfolding  his  great  fist.  He  wore  no  gloves. 
Once  he  gesticulated  at  the  leading  man's  back.  .  .  .  "Eh, 
my  precious  fellow,"  he  thought  triumphantly.  "Wait  a 
bit.  Lucky,  are  we?  I'll  be  even  with  you  yet,  you'll 
see.  And  then  I'll  pass  you  like  a  bird,  or  one  of  Fulton's 


306  LOVE 

jackanape  steamers;  I'll  puff  you  into  kingdom-come,  my 
beauty.     Tallien  can  always  wait — you  slimy,  nauseous 

Pig!"" 

If  he  had  been  twice  as  vulgar  he  wouldn't  have  affected 
the  principals.  Men  like  Tallien  don't  matter. 

They  took  up  their  places  in  front  of  the  table.  The 
clerk  dipped  his  quill  into  the  ink-horn. 

Bonaparte  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  wedding-ring,  en- 
graved on  the  inner  side  with  the  date,  9th  March,  1796, 
and  the  words:  "Au  destin."  He  had  chosen  the  device 
himself.  His  eyes  were  now  more  the  eyes  of  a  man  who 
can  see;  a  tinge  of  color  in  his  face.  He  stood  upright, 
motionless. 

Kind  Josephine  had  recovered  from  her  natural  irrita- 
tion. She  stood  by  his  side,  smiling.  She  even  smiled  at 
the  sleepy-eyed  clerk,  facing  her. 

General  Bonaparte  scrawled  his  signature  on  the  page 
indicated. 

"Here,  citizen  general,"  said  the  clerk,  handing  him  the 
pen. 

"Is  that  all?" 

His  voice  was  suspicious. 

"Quite  all  right,  citizen." 

Then  came  the  turn  of  Josephine.  Before  signing  she 
turned  and  smiled  at  the  general.  He  had  his  eyes  down. 
He  couldn't  face  anyone,  not  even  Josephine,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  victory.  .  .  .  So?  He  had  done  it?  He  had 
said  from  the  beginning  that  he  would  marry  her.  From 
the  very  first  moment  of  seeing  her  he  had  decided  to  make 
her  his  wife.  Somewhere  in  the  vaulted  skies  his  star 
shone  with  a  great  radiance. 

Josephine  wrote  her  name  very  small ;  it  was  practically 
hidden  beneath  her  husband's  signature.  Her  husband's? 

He  wanted  to  laugh,  to  shout,  to  scream,  to  caper  .  .  . 
he  stood  rigid  as  a  figure  carved  in  stone,  as  voiceless 
as  stone. 

Their  signatures  were  witnessed  in  proper  order.  Over 
M.  Barras'  entry  there  was  a  splash  of  ink. 


LOVE  307 

"Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  Citoyenne  Bonaparte/' 
said  M.  Barras,  kissing  her  hand. 

The  other  gentlemen  followed  his  example. 

Bonaparte  moved.  His  right  hand  fingerecl  the  sworil 
he  carried.  He  looked  up. 

"General,"  she  said,  "take  me  home." 


END  OF  VOLUME  B, 


YB  59747 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CDM5S51E3T 


4934 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


